


in the andaruni

by nasimwrites



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Andaruni spyfare, Calormen, Gen, Women Being Awesome, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasimwrites/pseuds/nasimwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There are two powers in the world; one is the sword and the other is the pen. There is a great competition and rivalry between the two. There is a third power stronger than both, that of the women.”<br/>― Muhammad Ali Jinnah</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pashmina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pashmina/gifts).



It begins when Aravis finds a girl lying dead in the courtyard just below her bedroom, skull cracked on the sandstone floor.

Qannar Tarkaan apologizes profusely on behalf of the Tisroc (may he live forever), and assures her that she has nothing to fear—after all, the slave was emotionally fragile, as women of base birth tend to be. Suicides are not uncommon.

Viyya Tarkheena calls a meeting that night, and in the quiet women’s corner of the Tisroc’s household, a war begins.

###

Aravis never intended to return.

It has been six years since Rabadash assaulted Archenland with his two hundred horse—six years since Aravis and Cor’s plan to go to Narnia and the North nearly came to a catastrophic end.

But times are desperate and King Lune is weakening, no matter how much he may try to hide it; the country is at stake, ties with Calormen are still tentative since Rabadash’s betrayal and subsequent humiliation, and the Council refuses to allow the Crown Prince to venture into a territory known for its treachery, despite the desperate need to establish the treaty that can see them through the following summer.

Cor is furious, the angriest Aravis has ever seen him. He even argues with his father, with whom he _never_ argues—he still has some Shasta in him—and leaves the palace for an entire day when he is inevitably overruled. She finds herself angry at him, resentful that he argues on her behalf out of concern for her safety when she has already accepted the weight of responsibility, resentful that he makes her wish she could stay. They snap at each other over breakfast on the day she leaves and when she reaches the ship she feels tears well up in her eyes.

She has been afraid of this; of falling back into the same pattern they have; of bickering for no reason and letting pride get in the way of whatever has been budding between them. The past few years have been enough to let her know that the skips her heart makes when she sees him aren’t only caused by annoyance.

But she also knows that she is still only Aravis, still a foreigner struggling to understand what is expected of her, still on the receiving end of odd looks from Archenland villagers who have never seen someone that looks like her, a girl of unclear rank among the tall, pale people of Anvard. She does not confuse the looks of jealousy from other Ladies for admiration, is not blind to the resentment she detects among some of the Lords. She is _Calormene_ to them, though she has shed all that remained of the _Tarkheena_ she once was.

With no clear rank, conflicting ethnicity, and a wealth of rising emotions towards the Crown Prince, she finds herself nothing more than dead weight—another burden, drawing on resources and giving nothing. And though she hates Calormen, and hates that she is yet associated with it, she is not a fool—she is of more use in Tashbaan than she is in Anvard.

So when the Council requests that she go, she goes.

###

“She has offered up her own slaves to wait upon the Northerners,” Negah Tarkheena says darkly, eyes skimming over a piece of ragged, white fabric.

Viyya Tarkheena’s hands do not still on the carpet weaver for a second. “Which ones?”

“Three waited on her children when they were younger, and one is the girl from Ilkeen.”

“The latter is a new one.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

Viyya lets out a noncommittal hum, and her hands finally still. She turns to look at her niece even as a slave approaches her with a cup of steaming coffee. “Inquire as to Kidrash Tarkaan’s daughter. She was friends with Lasaraleen, was she not?”

“I believe they still correspond occasionally.”

The older woman ponders on this for a moment. “Then we shall become acquainted.”

“Auntie, we do not know if she is to be trusted. She abandoned Calormen years ago.”

Viyya smiles over her drink. “She is a runaway. I trust runaways far more than Kings.”

###

In the stories her father told on the nights when wine flowed freely and she sat at Rahmat’s feet with milky coffee in her hands, the first Tarkaans took to the seas under the iron will of Ilsombreh Tisroc, who discovered the richness of the woods east of Zalindreh and built the first fleet that conquered the Southern Seas. As a child, she often dreamt of seeing the empire from across the vast expanse of water.

The waves here are different than they are in the rocky cliffs of Archenland, or in the sandy beaches near Cair Paravel in Narnia; they are clear and a light, translucent blue. They lap against the ship, fish and small transparent jellyfish floating in them, just as they do in the paintings she has seen of Ilsombreh Tisroc’s fleet. And beyond—the tall walls of Tashbaan rising up against the afternoon sun, minarets gleaming like lighted candles.

 _Tashbaan is the pulsing heart of Calormen_ , the poets used to say. And it does resemble a heart, streets winding southward up the valley like veins pulsing red blood to the rest of the country, the wind pushing and pulling at its walls like a steady heartbeat. The great burning desert stretches out northwards, and she can see no sign of Archenland. In the distance, a herald cries out.

Qannar Tarkaan greets her as _Our prodigal Tarkheena_ when she and Corin disembark, saying the words with just the right measure of scorn and respect that is impossible to protest. In Calormen, currency is made of sharp words and even sharper wits, and Aravis feels her body tense again, the way it once was, perpetually— _straight back, chin high, Tarkheena_ —the way Rahmat taught her— _you must be ready to defend yourself at all times,_ _little_ _sister_.

They have been joined by Lord Dar and knights from the Guard. Corin, looking much more serious than usual, walks at the head of their group alongside the Tarkaan, who proceeds to guide them through the streets towards the palace with an assortment of florid descriptions about the glory of the city. In the hot climate of Tashbaan, with the desert winds whipping at clothes made for a climate much colder than this one, Aravis feels as if the city is swallowing her. She looks up at the gap between the roofs overhead and the blue sky seems far, far away.

Tashbaan tastes like sand and spices and the banquets her father used to hold in Calavar, when she was young and her older brother was still alive. It smells of horses and sweat and burnt sugar, and she wants to block it all out, especially the eyes of the people in the streets, the eyes that _look at her_ …

“It’s all right,” Corin tries to comfort her under his breath. “They’re just looking at us barbarians.”

But they look at _her_ , and Aravis is not a barbarian, though the people in Anvard may call her Lady Aravis and pretend she is from Archenland, though she may wear their linen dresses and flowers in her hair. Her skin is dark and her hair is dark and to those in Tashbaan she is a Tarkheena dressed in Northern frock, being paraded by barbarians into the city…

She tastes her old accent again, tastes the spicy air, and tries to ignore the hundreds of eyes of the people who press back against the walls on either side of the street, pulling ponies, children and sacks of their possessions out of the way as the herald that calls out _Make way for the Barbarian Prince and the Tarkheena!_

She wonders if she looks like a hostage.

She cannot decide if she would rather be called _Lady_ or not.

###

She thinks of her brother often lately, perhaps because she is now the age he was when he died. Rahmat Tarkaan, firstborn son of Kidrash Tarkaan: she had dreamt to one day be like him, to ride gloriously into Tashbaan for her victories in the battlefield—to be a man, tall and strong, the pride of Calavar.

She wonders what he would think of her now, standing dressed in Archenland garb in the Tisroc’s palace, gazing at the rooms gifted to her for the duration of her stay. She wonders what Ahoshta Tarkaan would think, were he still alive.

“Your servant was told that these were to be the rooms of a Northern Princess,” a slave girl murmurs with awe from the corner, falling to the ground in profuse apology upon seeing her. Her name is Aini. The rooms seem to stretch out for miles, lavish, exquisitely furnished. “Forgive me, O my mistress; I did not know that you were one of us.”

Aravis’ heart catches in her throat.

She allows them to dress her after the fashion of highly-ranked Tarkheenas, in intricate silks and golden bangles and bells, as if no time has passed at all since Kidrash Tarkaan bargained his daughter’s life away in exchange for the Grand Vizier’s favor. But it would not do to offend the Tisroc by appearing in Northern frock, refusing to wear the clothes she was raised in.

What frightens her is how comfortably the clothes fit her; how much of a relief it is to feel the cool, soft silks against her legs, the looseness around her torso; ease in all the places Archenland fashion irritates her. The bangles around her arms seem to whisper her name against her forearms.

She swallows down the bile in her throat, her mind full of images of red silks and the wedding that could have been.

                                                                                             ###           

The throne room of the Tisroc’s palace is large, its ceiling arching upwards with exquisite engravings too detailed to recognize from the ground. Corin has been here before, and he tightens his fists reflexively as they follow Qannar Tarkaan towards the throne. He has not forgotten his previous stay, or Queen Susan’s distress at being trapped in this very city. The beaten-copper doors close behind them with a rumble.

The Calormenes have taken to calling the Tisroc _Rabadash the Peacemaker,_ but Aravis has heard rumors of other, more disparaging names. She, too, has struggled to imagine Calormen without war, its provinces—so dedicated to raising soldiers and horses and supplies, even entire armies—relegated to agriculture and trade like any other nation. Kidrash Tarkaan’s conversation always revolved around the steady supply of horses for the Tisroc’s cavalry, time spread out in a framework of battles, scheduled army movements and the taking of new provinces, with stretches of anticipation in between.

Perhaps Corin does not notice, but to her, the irony of the throne room is marked. The tapestries that decorate the pillars bear tales and tokens of war. The room itself has been built large enough to assemble all the captains. _Rabadash the Ridiculous_ , shame of the empire, ever fearful of the curse set upon him by Aslan, lest his power disappear in the blink of an eye.

Tarkaans and priests—Tashkhid, as they are called in Tashbaan—stand in firm lines along the hall, like walls of turbaned men. The points of the Tarkaans’ helmets glint, their beards dark shadows against colorful clothing. In the distance, Aravis can hear the loud horns of the gates of Tashbaan: sunset.

Fear clenches around her chest like a violent fist. She can feel them watching her. _Traitor_. _Disgrace of Calavar._ Many of them were once her brother’s comrades, others with greying beards often corresponded with her father, and some have been locked in bloody dispute with Calavar. Ishaq Tarkaan, the eldest of Rabadash’s brothers, with his untidy beard and reddish eyes, consumed by opium and drinking; Khalid Tarkaan, with sharp eyes and a cunning mouth; Ishamiel Tarkaan, grave and imposingly calm…

She never truly escaped; she has returned to her jail, to be watched and weighed and consumed. She has let them bring her back here; she has let her father win. King Lune does not know Calormen. He does not know the full extent of Calormene viciousness. Some things cannot be known unless one has grown up surrounded by them.

Corin, only a few steps ahead of her, hands still clenched into tense fists, stops beside Qannar Tarkaan’s prostrate body and looks up at the Tisroc himself.

Rabadash looks different now, resting on a raised dais, the turban on his head replaced with the pointed cap of the Tisroc of Calormen. At first glance, he seems vastly different from the young, violently inclined man Aravis glimpsed alongside Lasaraleen that night so many years ago in the Old Palace—but the same darkness is there—the hard, cunning greed that once threatened Queen Susan and the North. His eyes are fixed on Aravis.

“Prince Corin of Archenland and…” he nods his head almost deferentially. “The beloved daughter of Kidrash my kinsman. Friend, I see you bring us our prodigal Tarkheena. You are most welcome."

The alliance between Calavar and Tashbaan has always been a strong one. _We are kin_ , her father used to say. _Through the blood of my father Rishti Tarkaan, son of Kidrash Tarkaan my namesake, who was the sixth son of Ilsombreh Tisroc himself (on whom be the peace of the gods), I am descended from the line of Tash, and therefore you are also_.

She knows well that it is dangerous to deny the Tisroc the respect he believes he deserves. But she will not bow before him; she cannot. The wall of Tarkaans is long and unmoving behind her, the memory of Ahoshta’s groveling form stark in her mind, and the gleam in Rabadash’s eyes has reminded her, suddenly, of the sight of Cor riding into battle armed with nothing but his exhaustion and his courage.

Corin is smiling coldly. “We are overwhelmed by your generosity. Tashbaan is a beautiful city. As for Lady Aravis,” and Aravis does not know if he says this for her benefit or out of sudden desire to antagonize the Tisroc. “I did not _bring_ her. She came herself, knowing full well the wealth of abilities she has to share, and shall return home with me also.”

“Doubtless, she will be useful for interpretation,” Rabadash says, and smiles thinly. “If I remember correctly, Prince Corin, you were met with some… _misfortune,_ during your last visit. One may easily misinterpret the demands and conditions of a culture when left solely to foreign devices.”

Corin’s jaw tightens. “I do hope that such misfortune can be avoided.”

If Rabadash understands what Corin is implying, he gives no sign of being offended. Aravis almost wishes he did; the cold benevolence he projects is unnerving. She has a sudden vision of the Tarkaans behind them unsheathing their scimitars and hacking them to pieces at the Tisroc’s feet.

“Of course. You will want of nothing.”

“There is only one thing we desire, and we desire it dearly. It is for that reason my father has sent us as his representatives; to add further emphasis to our request.” Corin has rehearsed this multiple times during their journey from Anvard, sometimes vicious, sometimes pleading. Here, to Aravis’ relief, he appears as neither. “The plague that struck our kingdom in summer was devastating, and brought about the death of hundreds, if not thousands. There is only one treatment to the disease: the plant _Food of the gods_ , which your people plant in abundance, and which does not grow in Northern climates. We come to you in hopes of establishing a trade of this leaf between our countries, that our people may be safe when the next year comes.”

“Ah, yes, your land is in dire need, is it not?” Rabadash shifts in his seat, leaning backwards, as if pondering on the state of Archenland. “The plague this spring nearly decimated your population. Is your father well? Perhaps he is sick, and for that reason has not relinquished his eldest son from his side.”

Aravis digs her nails into her palms. Her hands are sweating. Aside from Corin’s burning eyes, however, he seems almost calm. “He is very well,” Corin asserts pointedly. “My brother is concerned with other matters of state. But as you know, the risk of another plague is yet great, and if we could count on your assistance—”

“King Lune knows that I have ever been eager to offer my assistance in times of tribulation. But as I have communicated previously, the use of our holy plant is reserved purely for ceremonies to the gods, and is not to be traded as a common leaf.” Rabadash pauses, his fingers fiddling with the jewels that hang from his neck. “I have also heard, by way of other contacts, that this leaf was obtained through illegal trade between your village healers and Calormene bandits, thus leading to a discovery of a cure through… rather _undignified_ means. It strikes me that a reward for dealings so shameful in nature should be met with a King—and his sons’—approval.”

“It’s in pursuit of eliminating the need for those criminal activities that we desire to establish trade through legal means. We will pay extravagantly.”

Rabadash lets out a low laugh of derision, and murmurs rise about the room. Turning slightly, Aravis can see out of the corner of her eye that the white-turbaned Tashkhid are murmuring amongst themselves. She wonders if Zoshrud Tashkhad is among them, an old ally of her father’s— _If he were not my friend, he would be the greatest danger this House has ever faced_ , her father used to say after his visits. _When Tash is wielded as a weapon, entire nations fall._

She swallows. In her mind’s eye, her father stares at her warningly. But the King has sent her here.

“It is a matter of safety, O Tisroc. With the loss of the Four in Narnia, Archenland is your closest ally in the North. If our people fall prey to a plague, there will be no force to keep other enemies at bay from your northern border.”

She knows the fear Tarkaans have for the creatures of the Western Wild and the wild lands of the North. Giants are used in tales to terrorize, and senseless fear of an invasion, sometimes even by Narnia itself, often overtakes Calormene nobility. With the appearance of Telmar, a small yet steadily prospering nation, Calormen is beginning to feel more and more isolated, even in times of peace.

But Rabadash looks down at her, all pretense of a smile gone. “Aravis Tarkheena,” he says, and her name sounds like an insult. “Forgive me; I am not accustomed to be spoken to by women in this setting.”

The words are like an icy wall. Saying nothing more to her, he turns to Corin. “We have yet time, Prince Corin. Let us enjoy the comforts that Calormen has to offer. I will show you the finest places in this land, so that you may entertain your kinsmen with tales of our hospitality upon your return.”

The dismissal is clear. Corin grinds his teeth. “I remember your past hospitality well.”

Rabadash does not rise to the bait. “Good. Perhaps I can rekindle some of your more enjoyable memories.”

“And our conversation?”

“I am eager to continue it. But not today. Today is a day for enjoyment—politics can come later.”

###

They convene in Corin’s rooms, Corin unlacing his boots and flinging them into a corner with frustration. Aravis sits upon a pile of embroidered cushions and massages her temples, where a headache is gathering. Her heart is still pounding.

Lord Dar remains near the door; despite being a member of the Council, he has always seemed more of a military man, more comfortable on the battlefield than in the comforts afforded by his rank. His brow is furrowed.

“If this sets the pattern for the rest of our stay, Your Highness, I fear that we are at a disadvantage.”

“We were already at a disadvantage when we acted desperate enough to come here,” Corin replies, scowling. “He completely dismissed the conversation; does he have no shame, after everything he has put us through? I wish I had called him an Ass to his face,” he adds darkly.

“I do not think that it was wise to goad him.”

“It was unwise to bring up the subject in the presence of the Tashkhid,” Aravis says, looking at the floor. “They are against using holy materials for commerce, much less with Northerners.”

“Why should he care about them? He’s the bloody _Tisroc._ ”

Aravis shakes her head. “A disagreement between the Tisroc and Tashkhid is one of the worst situations for this country—success hinges on the effective dealing between Tisroc, Tashkhid and Tarkaans; otherwise it’s chaos.” Her mouth suddenly feels dry. “That’s how the rebel wars started.”

Her childhood home had a marble floor like this one, with white steps leading down the front, where her brother Rahmat swung her in his arms and teased that he would bring her a rebel’s head back as a present. She asked her father later if there was a possibility of sending Rahmat a message to tell him that she had changed her mind: an enemy’s sword would do. Her father laughed, and she was confused.

She was too young to understand the political reasons behind the rebel wars that shook the country in the early years of her childhood, but she knew that it was the Tisroc and his sons who called Calavar’s Tarkaans to battle, along with five hundred of their horses. She thinks, now, that perhaps she never forgave them for it.

The wars in Calormen are over, but she felt the tension in the hall, and it made her skin crawl.

Corin is shaking his head. “Well, we can’t be bothered with their politics; we’re offering an exorbitant price and he has no use for so many crops.”

“You don’t understand, Corin.” Aravis looks up. The memory of the Tarkaans and Tashkhid, lined up in the throne room like a silent army, flashes through her mind and makes her shiver. “If the Tisroc goes against the Tashkhid there’s potential for revolt. He won’t risk that.”

###

When Lasaraleen sees her, she lets out a shriek of excitement, and then a second shriek when she unintentionally steps barefoot onto the sun-heated stone floors. She waves frantically from the courtyard instead, and when Aravis reaches her, she is embraced by her friend’s perfumed scent—one that makes her think of Mezreel, the fruits of her father’s garden, and long walks among roses, arguing over everything.

“Your Princes are nice,” Lasaraleen says once they are inside, balancing a small baby, her firstborn, on her knee. She’s eating dates and having some trouble keeping them away from the child’s grasping fingers. “Of course, I’ve only seen Prince Corin, but I hear the other is identical so there’s no need for confirmation. I _am_ looking forward to the festivities now that you’re here. The Tisroc (may he live forever) will surely make it as lavish as he possibly can! I’ve already ordered five new dresses. Do you have enough dresses?”

“He’s showing off,” Aravis states scornfully, ignoring her and fully knowing that Lasaraleen will be horrified at her disparaging comments about the royal family, even more so about the Tisroc himself. “Trying to sweep his treachery under the rug and pretend it never happened. And the other Tarkaans are just as shameless.”

“Well that’s to be expected, darling,” Lasaraleen replies unexpectedly as she wriggles a small stuffed horse in the baby’s face. “They’re all bastards.”

###

The Tisroc’s attempt to distract them from their plans comes in the form of a garden party south of the city walls, in a clearing that grazes a stream, where the air is full of Jazmin and a thousand other scents Aravis remembers only from childhood in her father’s summer home. She remembers rolling down hills and infuriating her nurse with torn clothing, remembers when Lasaraleen’s family visited and she coerced the poor girl into going rowing in the lake.

Tables have been arranged on the grass, laden with pomegranates, oranges and dates, and a musician has begun to play the flute under a large tree. While the men sit at the tables, laughing loudly, some smoking from long, sweet-scented pipes, the women linger just beyond the tree line in a separate clearing. Slaves fan them lightly as they lounge on rugs set out on the grass. Qannar Tarkaan stands between both groups, mouth twitching into a sneer at the sight of her. She ignores him.

Aravis has met some of the Tarkheenas before, when she was younger. Many are distantly related to her, and some she has encountered as children in the parties she had been forced to attend. Lasaraleen would have remembered all their names. She is able to identify Aya Tarkheena, Rabadash’s third wife, who was but an infant the last time Aravis saw her, and Negah Tarkheena, the only daughter of the late Prince Jarrash—Rabadash’s older brother, who died some years back under mysterious circumstances, as Crown Princes tend to do. Others, she has only heard of: Izara Tarkheena, the sickly wife of Ishaq Tarkaan; and Zadreh Tarkheena, the wife of Khalid Tarkaan. The latter watches Aravis through thickly painted eyes. She is older than Khalid himself—something uncommon in Calormene marriages.

Sitting in the circle of Tarkheenas, partaking of breads and cheeses and dips of spices, Aravis feels as if she is masquerading as the Tarkheena she was once expected to become. The women keep their voices low, the sound of their occasional laughter melodious; a soft symphony of elegance—an art in which they have all been trained from the moment they were born.

“Does Northern air suit you?” Negah Tarkheena asks after their initial greeting, her green eyes smiling. She sits cross-legged, her ample turquoise skirt making her seem like the perfect painting of a Princess, a few curls springing out from beneath the scarf that loosely falls to her shoulders.

“I hear that the wind of the mountains makes your hair coarse, and that barbarians have poor hygiene,” a Tarkheena mutters to another.

Negah glares at the other woman. “Desist from such vulgarity.”

“Archenland pleases me,” Aravis replies, ignoring the others. “It has become my home.”

There is a sudden shift, and all heads turn as a woman dressed in shimmering lilac approaches, surrounded by her slaves. She fixes her cold gaze on Aravis. “Join me, Tarkheena.”

Aravis catches sight of the silver bangle on the woman’s arm and rises to her feet. This is Durriya Khasik, first wife of the Tisroc. Aravis has heard of Durriya’s marriage—one last attempt to finally unify the cities of Tashbaan and Tehishbaan after years of estrangement between Durriya’s father, Bilash Tarkaan, and the Tashkhid. Looking at her now, she realizes that Durriya is only a few years older than her.

They sit slightly apart from the rest of the gathering, upon soft carpets, bowls of fruit between them. Butterflies flutter along patches of flowers, but the woman’s expression is stony.

“I suspect you intended to approach me eventually,” she tells Aravis, her hands folded carefully over her skirt. Behind her, under a low canopy between trees, Aravis sees a slave playing with a small child. “Therefore there is no need for you to waste time with niceties. Your effort is one I do not endorse.”

Aravis is momentarily taken aback. Habituated to veiled meanings traded with courtesy, Durriya’s openness is both jarring and refreshing. She finds herself suddenly unsure as to how to make her approach; and finally decides that there is no use in keeping her words to herself. “You are right—I would have approached you. The plant has the potential to save hundreds of lives—is that not a goal as sacred as Tash himself?”

Durriya lets out a low laugh, though the sound holds little mirth. “I care not for the ramblings of the Tashkhid… I am no fool. They refuse because they dislike the North and will not yield their sacred charge to anyone they do not agree with.”

“Then why not support our stance?” Aravis presses, lowering her voice. Durriya does not seem wary around her own slaves, but other Tarkheenas sit close in the clearing, some of them other wives of the Tisroc—perhaps rivals. “Calormen’s riches are its greatest asset, and we are willing to pay extravagantly. Persuade the Tisroc to ally himself with us.”

“Do not attempt to school me in the politics of this country—if there is any advantage to my proximity to the Tisroc (may he live forever), it is my knowledge of its intricacies.” Her expression is grave. “My father is Bilash Tarkaan of Tehishbaan. My refusal to support my husband’s position on this matter could spark a war.”

“Why fear the conflict, when your father is so powerful?”

“Because my father would _win_ the war, Tarkheena.”

Before Aravis can reply, there is a sudden commotion from the tables. Turning to look towards where the men are gathered, as all in the clearing do, Aravis catches sight of Ishaq Tarkaan lying on the ground, kicking at a slave even as he rolls over on the grass, dishes falling from the table and crashing against people’s feet and the tree trunks, in full view of the rest of the party.

It is a disgraceful sight; made all the more disgraceful by Rabadash’s attempts to brush it off with a loud laugh, while slaves struggle to lift Ishaq from where he lies. Khalid Tarkaan is forced to seize his brother by the neck of his tunic and pull him off the grass.

Aravis does not miss the venomous look Rabadash throws his brothers when Corin looks elsewhere, or the way the slaves shake as they carry the half-conscious Tarkaan away, stepping backwards, so as to face their ruler at all times.

She looks away. Durriya is watching the scene, her mouth twisted into a bitter line. She looks at Aravis, and her eyes are firm, but—Aravis realizes—not unkind, as she had initially interpreted.

“Tell your Prince not to meddle with our affairs—you know well the delicate balance upon which this empire stands. The slightest shift, and someone slips onto the edge of the knife.”


	2. Chapter 2

Aravis learned to overhear conversations like all children in large households do—to walk silently in corridors, to listen from around corners even without meaning to. So she hears the gasp of the slave-girl, the frantic rustle of clothes, and then her desperate scream as the ground disappears beneath the girl’s feet—the sickening crack of bone against sandstone floors…

When she turns the corner, Aini is lying at a twisted angle on the ground, a pool of blood steadily spreading from beneath her head.

For a moment, Aravis stands frozen. This is not the first dead body she has seen, nor the first acquaintance she has watched die, but there is something about the moment that seizes her; something about the way the girl’s dark hair is splayed out on the stone, the way it suddenly highlights how very small she is.

###

“Are you _sure_?”

“Yes.” Aravis is shaking. She was calm from the instant she saw Aini’s body, and all throughout the conversations that followed, including Qannar Tarkaan’s appalling attempt at an explanation. But now, in the safety of Corin’s quarters, far removed from her own where Aini’s footsteps still seem to linger, she can feel her body slowly begin to give way under the weight of what has happened. “She did _not_ throw herself from the balcony, Corin. She did _not_.”

Dar, arms crossed before him, holds the Prince’s gaze for a moment before looking at her. “Why would someone wish to kill a slave in such dramatic fashion?”

Corin seems stunned into silence, and Aravis shakes her head, her heart pounding. “It does not sit well with me. Qannar Tarkaan should be investigating this, not pretending it was a suicide. I told him I heard something. At the very least, he should be investigating it out of respect to you, Corin, if he won’t do it for me.”

Lord Dar looks troubled. “I agree with Lady Aravis. There is something disquieting about this. Your Highness,” he looks at Corin. “I would suggest doubling our security.”

Corin frowns. “You think this is a threat?”

“I do not know, Sire. But we cannot be too safe.” He sighs. “Normally, we would send spies to discover the truth, but this palace is like a prison—our men are too easily recognizable, and I fear that we could not trust even those whom we might pay for information.”

They settle into troubled silence, but Durriya’s words ring through Aravis’ mind. _You know well the delicate balance upon which this empire stands. The slightest shift and someone slips onto the edge of the knife._

###

As evening falls, Aravis retreats to her rooms. She cannot escape them forever. The blood has been cleaned, and a new slave curtsies as she enters her room. It seems as if nothing has happened—as if the palace has already forgotten.

Preparing for her ablutions and gazing into the crystalline, rose-scented water, she feels as if she can see visions in her reflection—images of herself, fourteen and married to Ahoshta Tarkaan, _emotionally fragile_ , found dead in the courtyard: free at last from the cage.

She trembles again and is about to plunge her hands into the water when there is a knock at the door.

Viyya Tarkheena requests to meet with her for supper.

Aravis met her in the gardens, but it was scarcely more than a simple greeting. Viyya is the wife of Avar Tarkaan, younger brother of the late Adeben Tisroc; a quiet, older woman with wide, wise eyes and hair dyed raven-black.

Her rooms are in the women’s wing of the Tisroc’s palace, where all high-ranking Tarkheenas closely related to the Empire’s rulers live: through doors flanked by guards, through passages of marble floors, beneath roofs exquisitely decorated with glazed tiles, forming patters of colors and flowers.

Upon seeing Aravis, Viyya smiles and grasps her hand in hers, before indicating that she sit near her on the carpeted floor.

“O my daughter, Tash has indeed blessed this meeting.” Her voice is tranquil and level as she sorts through a small pile of yarn. Near them is a carpet weaver, the sort that Aravis used to see in the villages, but richly decorated—likely custom made for the Tarkheena’s use. “Your bosom friend Lasaraleen is my daughter-in-law, and so we have grown close; in like manner, I desire that you and I become confidantes.”

They are served coffee and sweets on great silver platters, and scarcely a few seconds later, Lasaraleen arrives, looking for all the world as if she herself lives in the palace.

Her child is balanced on her hip, the bangles around her wrist jingling as she seats herself between Aravis and Viyya. “I really do loathe leaving him with the nurses,” she explains, after greeting Viyya with a kiss on the cheek. “They dress him in the most _awful_ clothing, you cannot imagine.”

But Aravis sees the possessive way in which she holds the baby, the way she absentmindedly strokes his soft head as he rests his plump cheek against her breast, sees how little regard she gives to the child’s saliva-slick hand tangling in the hair she had once forbidden even her own slaves to touch, out of fear that they would ‘ruin it’.

“Your visit is already quite eventful, Aravis, isn’t it?” Lasaraleen exclaims, eyes shining with excitement. The child is silent, lulled to sleep by her incessant talking. “I do wish I had been able to go to the garden party—they did send along an invitation, but I was awfully tired. I entertained guests from Teebeth last night, and they were absolutely _frightful_.”

“You have news, I hear?” Viyya asks calmly, without looking up from the yarn.

Gaily, Lasaraleen takes a deep breath, as she always does when she has gossip to share.  Aravis, who has been expecting the monotonous exchange common between distant relatives, given Viyya’s presence, looks at Lasaraleen with some confusion.

“I heard about Prince Ishaq’s drunken fit; such a disgrace—and in broad daylight!” Lasaraleen exclaims, turning towards her. “Oh, and I know who killed the slave-girl,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

“You do?” Aravis asks, shocked at the revelation. Lasaraleen’s newfound cynicism of the palace and its activities is such a drastic change from the fascination she once expressed, and reveals itself at such unexpected moments, that at times she finds herself questioning whether she has known her friend at all. Other times, she has to fight down the sickening thought of what events must have taken place to deconstruct even Lasaraleen’s passion for the lives of nobility. “Who did it?”

She glances at Viyya, who is merely watching Lasaraleen with mild interest as she spreads out lengths of yarn over her lap.

“Well—do pass that platter, darling, I cannot resist _kanafeh_ —” Lasaraleen reaches over to pluck a piece of the sugary red sweet and takes a bite. “You see, I’ve just come from Razza Tarkheena’s quarters; she is also from Mezreel, and her father was my father’s cousin… she was wedded two years ago, I think, to Maresh Tarkaan’s eldest. Was it two years ago? Perhaps three. Anyway, she’s not _quite_ as talkative as I am, but she does have the _sharpest_ eyes, it’s quite impressive. And her slave is close to her—loyal to a fault, I tell you. If her husband _knew_ the things that go on in his household…” she shakes her head, eyes gleaming with delight.

“You said you knew who killed Aini,” Aravis prompts with some exasperation.

“I did, I do.” She finishes the sweet and cleans her fingers against an expensively embroidered napkin. The baby continues to sleep deeply, fingers tightly curled around a lock of her hair. “ _So_ , this slave of hers happened by the cook, who was whipping her son— _stealthily_ , as if his punishment ought to be kept secret. The boy is not quite an adult but he will be of marrying age in a few years—he does odd jobs about the palace, although he most certainly should _not_ have been near your rooms—and it was unusual to see the cook so concerned. She kept repeating that he must dry his tears before anyone notices. Suspicious, no?”

“That hardly constitutes proof.”

“It was on the same day as the girl’s death—only a few minutes later, in fact. The slave didn’t hear of the murder until directly after she had returned to my friend. Who, coincidentally,” she adds. “Saw the same cook and the same son marched under disguise into the women’s wing—need I remind you that _no men_ ought to be there _at all,_ unless of direct family?—a few days back. It’s all quite deliciously suspicious.”

“And no one said anything?”

“Oh, the slaves wouldn’t dare. The orders came _from above_ to let them through without a word to anyone.”

“From _above_?”

Lasaraleen wiggles her eyebrows mysteriously. “Quite a scandal, isn’t it? Of course, there _have_ been men in private quarters in the past—or so I am told, though of course I couldn’t _possibly_ tell you who—but this seems odd, because if _that_ was what the boy was doing I doubt his mother would be so keen on bringing him in to see a Tarkheena.”

Aravis is frowning. “From above…”

“It could be an enemy of Zadreh Tarkheena, Khalid Tarkaan’s wife,” Lasaraleen remarks with a shrug, glancing at Viyya. “She was the one to assign her new slave to your quarters. Oh dear, please pass me another one, it’s so incredibly delicious.”

Viyya looks up from the yarn and fixes her gaze on Aravis. “This matter is of interest to us… and given the proximity of the slave to your rooms, it may also be of interest to the North,” she says. “If you wish to pursue the truth, I believe we can be of assistance.”

###

The first letter from Kidrash Tarkaan arrives the next morning, wrapped in thick fabric, the symbol of the Tarkaans of Calavar embroidered into the edges. Aravis drops it as if it is on fire and lets it sit on the coverlet of her bed, lets it lie there and imagines that it dies and becomes a corpse, rotting from the inside out.

“Does your father know we’re here?” Corin asked only a few days after they had arrived.

“If he does not, I’m sure he will,” Aravis replied, trying to stop her throat from constricting at the thought. “But he is old, and I doubt he could make the trip from Calavar to Tashbaan. Thank the Lion for that; his only purpose in coming would be to try and extort you under the pretense that you held me hostage, or something equally ridiculous.”

Corin stared at her closely, and she felt as if she withered slightly under his gaze, friendly as it was. “You don’t think he’d want to see you?”

Aravis only let out a low, bitter laugh.

She waits until all the slaves leave her rooms, and then closes the curtains that cover the window, as if seeing sunlight might make the letter more real. Then she carefully unwraps the cloth, feeling the grooves of the scroll that seems impossibly heavy beneath it, and opens the letter.

She reads _O my daughter and O the delight of my eyes—_ and immediately seizes a candle, lights it, and burns the scroll until the smoke stings at her eyes and makes her cough and disintegrates on the stone floor into a pile of blackened, foul-scented ash.

###

Their attempts to meet with Rabadash in an official capacity grow more and more futile. Qannar Tarkaan is an ever-present barrier.

“The Tisroc (may he live forever) is occupied with matters of ruling, and cannot be present to converse with you today,” he says to Corin, his bow reminding Aravis more of a convulsion than a sign of courtesy. His tone changes significantly when she is the one requesting an audience: “The Tisroc (may he live forever), does not meet with women, unless she intends to frequent his presence in another capacity.”

The slight angers her, but she has expected its like from the moment she was assigned this task and knew she would be visiting Tashbaan. It is not what troubles her. Sometimes, before sleep, visions of Aini’s death and her father’s letter mingle with memories of the plague that tore through Archenland… the memories of the bodies of the dead piled up in wagons with as much reverence as possible when hundreds die by the week, of the handkerchiefs and herbs that were exchanged, a futile attempt to keep the remaining living healthy. She remembers Cor riding out despite the Council’s protests to assist in giving out provisions, and being terrified that he might not live to see autumn arrive.

If there is a conspiracy, if Aini’s death truly _is_ a part of something more sinister, it is not the only thing that occupies her mind.

Sitting in her rooms beside the open windows that breathe a gentle breeze, Lasaraleen looks at Aravis knowingly. “Aravis, something is _afoot_.”

Aravis shakes her head. She is looking out past the palace grounds to where the minarets of the Temple of Tash swell into the sky, and she feels infinitely small. Behind her, the sounds of Viyya’s steady weaving continue. “Perhaps we are mad, seeing signs where there is nothing. This likely has nothing to do with Archenland.”

“Something is _afoot_ , I tell you.” Sitting up straight in the couch upon which she has been reclining, Lasaraleen pushes away a dish of cakes and grasps both her hands, voice low and fiercely thrilled. “A murder directly in front of your rooms—Khalid’s wife meeting with strange people… these are not coincidences.”

“You’re having too much fun with this,” Aravis says reprovingly.

Lasaraleen laughs almost dryly. “Darling, the last time I had fun like this you and I were in the Old Palace eavesdropping on the old Tisroc (upon him be the peace of the gods)—”

“—there was nothing _fun_ about that—”

“—and then came six years of dinners and small talk and then _pregnancy_ and oh, Aravis, do let me have my fun.”

###

Negah Tarkheena drops a dozen small rolls of cloth on the carpet as her slaves leave them, and then turns to the women in the room. “I am convinced that the culprit is Zadreh Tarkheena,” she informs them.

“Have the slaves confirmed it?” Viyya asks. She sits cross-legged as usual, weaving. Lasaraleen and Aravis lean against cushions nearby, cups of coffee steaming between them. The baby is crawling over a small pile of stuffed toys at his mother’s feet, clumsily bringing each one to his mouth.

Negah unrolls the cloth, and Aravis sees a series of dark lines and illegible scribbles, drawn inelegantly with what seems to be charcoal, covering the length of fabric.

“It is _andaruni_ script,” she explains to Aravis, seeing her interest. “The language of women. It was not invented by the schooled, for our grandmothers were not schooled as we are now—yet they had to communicate somehow. It is a language for secrets; to be passed from mother to daughter, away from the eyes of men. Even the slaves know it.”

Lasaraleen smirks. “We were the first to know of Aya Tarkheena seeing a stable boy.”

“We stopped Ishamiel Tarkaan from being poisoned—he irritated the Tisroc (may he live forever) with his refusal to agree with new taxation plans. We caught the poison before it touched him.”

Viyya, unfazed by the conversation, stares at Negah expectantly until her niece returns to the symbols and reads them quickly.

“They have confirmed that there is an excess of correspondence arriving for her, almost daily. And…” she skims over another piece of fabric and then looks up towards where they sit against the cushions. “Yes. Lasaraleen, the cook and her son visited Zadreh on that day.”

“My nephew’s wife took a liking to the slave-girl from Ilkeen; she does not take slaves easily,” Viyya says pensively before anyone can reply. “Why conspire to have her murdered?”

“Perhaps she knew something,” Lasaraleen suggests.

“Or intended to let something slip.” Aravis’ mind returns to Aini’s look of shock upon realizing that her new mistress was not Northern, but of Calormene origin. Only now does she realize that perhaps there was something more to her surprise—perhaps she had expected to conspire against a Northern Princess, not a Tarkheena.

Viyya’s eyes are piercing as she turns to Aravis. “Does your Prince fear being murdered?”

“Not particularly.”

“Of course he does, Auntie!” Lasaraleen exclaims, even as she scrambles to pull her child back before he ventures out into the balcony. “The last time he set foot in Tashbaan—”

Aravis glares at Lasaraleen warningly. It will not do to emphasize the already existing feud between Rabadash and Archenland; despite her trust in the women, she is still an ambassador for Archenland. “It is a concern as it would be in any other country,” she interjects diplomatically.

Viyya’s lips twist into a small, wry smile, her aged eyes crinkling. “Then he is a fool,” she says simply. “He must fear this place more than any other. Neither the Tashkhid nor the Tarkaans take kindly to the North; yet times of peace have made us calmer—some would say _weaker_ —and he should not face danger from the Tisroc himself (may he live forever). But it is others that I do not trust.”

“Such as Zadreh Tarkheena?”

“Such as Zadreh, and whoever is sending her letters.”

Aravis runs her fingers over a roll of cloth and its strange symbols, and finds that she is surprisingly calm in the face of all the new information. She looks around at the other women. “Have you intercepted letters?”

“Oh, of course.” Lasaraleen waves a hand. Her baby is now on her lap, and tries to grasp the bangles that jingle as her arm moves. “But we could not do it ourselves, and the slaves cannot read real writing, which is unfortunate. Someone must read the contents to them in order to record them.”

“And who have you for that?”

“No one.” Lasaraleen says airily. “As of yet.”

Aravis stares. “Are you implying it is to be me?”

Negah grins. “I’m afraid it cannot be _me_ , as Zadreh already loathes me and being in the vicinity is already telltale enough. Auntie is no longer young enough to run about the palace.”

Lasaraleen rolls her eyes. “Aravis, you could manage it quite easily; see, we have done it before—I told you, Auntie and Negah darling, didn’t I? Of our _fantastic_ adventure when we were children?—I dressed Aravis as a slave and paraded her about the palace—”

“—it was hardly a _parade_ —”

“—and _oh_ , how terribly dangerous and fun it all was! Exactly the sort of mad adventure you like, Aravis. You ought to do it again. I cannot go with you this time, of course. I have the baby to care for and couldn’t put myself at such risk, but you have no children, so go! Oh, do be sensible, Aravis. How else will we know what is in the letters?”

###

There is really no way to predict when correspondence will arrive for Khalid Tarkaan’s wife, so Aravis is genuinely surprised when, scarcely two days later, an urgent message comes from Viyya Tarkheena in the form of a young girl, who quickly flashes a scrap of white cloth from beneath the sleeve of her dress to demonstrate her allegiance.

They race through corridors and down staircases, until they reach the inner women’s wing—the large assortment of rooms occupied by the Tisroc and his brothers’ wives and children. Aravis is wary of venturing too far inside and risking being seen, but the slave-girl shakes her head silently and leads her down a more narrow series of steps, into a small corridor which Aravis supposes must be a passage reserved only for those waiting on the Tarkheenas above.

There, a second girl is waiting, a scroll wrapped in thick cloth in her hand. She unwraps it carefully, so as to not mar it, and then extends it towards Aravis with a curtsy. And although Aravis can feel her own heart pounding wildly, the girl’s hand does not tremble at all.

The first girl, meanwhile—Salya is her name—has produced a thin stick of whittled charcoal and stands poised to take note onto the cloth on the inner hem of her gown.

“Listen carefully, and write fast,” Aravis whispers, perhaps unnecessarily, but the eerily dim light of the passage and the occasional footsteps in the distance it is hard not to be overwhelmed. As she reads, she hears the faint scratch of andaruni script being recorded on fabric.

It is the eyes of the slave-girls that keep her focused: the eyes of women who have done this a hundred times before.

_Bilash Tarkaan to Zadreh Tarkheena, salutation and peace,_

_In the name of Tash the irresistible, the inexorable._

_O my kinswoman, consort of the esteemed Khalid Tarkaan: convey to your husband my heartfelt appreciation for his enduring alliance. Verily, I praise the gods daily for bringing us together, for his assistance has proven invaluable. May Tash shower upon you and your children blessings of everlasting magnitude for your noble works in pursuit of our common goal._

_Concern yourself not with informing me as to the date set to carry out our purpose. It is best, perhaps, to keep such details hidden from each other. Know only that my armies are assembled and ready to march to Tashbaan’s aid at a word from you; I will, therefore, trust in your judgement and knowledge of the length of stay of the Barbarian Prince, and merely wait. Word has reached me that we double Calavar’s cavalry in size, and our production has increased tenfold. Surely with our speed we shall ensure that glory is restored to our province—and that your husband may occupy his long-sought-for, long-deserved position, in all but name, in the beginning. Let us put an end to this era of shame and bring about a new era of glory before the gods, that our descendants may remember our names with pride._

_I look forward to ride alongside your husband in the battlefield._  
  
Your loyal kinsman,  
Bilash Tarkaan son of Azrog Tarkaan of Tehishbaan and the Sunlit Plains

In her mind, she hears Lasaraleen whisper again. _Something is afoot._

###

“Why would Bilash Tarkaan be speaking to Khalid’s wife? As far as I have been informed, Khalid Tarkaan has never had ties to Tehishbaan.” Lord Dar speaks in a low voice over supper. They are seated at the table in the balcony of Corin’s rooms, the cool air of the evening finally overtaking the heat.

“They share the dislike of the Tashkhid,” Aravis replies. She has been unable to take a bite the whole afternoon, her stomach churning with worry. “Khalid has long been petitioning to instate the Southern tribes as a self-governed province like all others and initiate fair trade with them, but the Tashkhid are against it. And Tehishbaan and the Tashkhid have long been enemies.”

Corin shakes his head with disbelief. “But none of this has anything to do with _us_. Why should the length of our stay affect whatever it is that they are plotting?”

“And are they plotting a war?” Lord Dar asks under his breath. “For it seems to me, Your Highness, that this Bilash intends to start one.”

A war in the open, perhaps, Aravis thinks. The war in the palace is beginning, if it has not already begun; Aini was its first casualty, or at any rate, the first noticeable one. The women of the palace—Zadreh, Viyya, Negah, Salya, even the cook—are already soldiers in this battle, pieces moving silently across the chessboard in a deadly, secretive battle.

“ _His long-sought-for, long-deserved position_ …” Corin’s eyes have returned to the hastily scribbled translation of what Salya has transcribed. “How far along is Khalid in the line to the throne?”

“Following the Tisroc is Ishaq Tarkaan, and directly after him is Khalid. Khalid and Ishaq have long been allies—if only because Ishaq’s addiction renders him incapable of carrying himself without Khalid’s counsel.”

Corin nods, his finger poised on the text, frowning as he tries to comprehend. “ _In all but name, in the beginning_. Do you think he means to be Tisroc, by leading an assault upon Tashbaan?”

Aravis shakes her head. “He could not win. The army Rabadash commands here is too great, and at any rate, Tashbaan was built for a siege.” Rebels have tried to take it twice over the past centuries and failed both times. It is impenetrable, and impossible to ambush.

“Then what is their plan, and what part do we play in it? Do we even care to stop it? We came here to trade, not meddle in Calormene politics.” Corin glances at Aravis pointedly. He reminds her of Cor in these moments, grave and tense; it is as if in the absence of his twin, he finds the need to make up for it.

“ _Calormene politics_ are discussing you as if you are a target, Corin,” Aravis snaps. “We cannot get information elsewhere, and all the while this place is festering with conspiracy. Durriya inferred as much; she fears that her father might spark a war, although she implied that it would come about because of our endeavor to trade with them.”

“She may have said that she fears war, but she is Rabadash’s wife. I don’t trust him or any of his allies.”

“It seems now that you cannot trust his enemies, either.”

###

Viyya puts down the transcription of the letter, her eyes grave. Aravis feels a shiver go down her spine; a part of her has hoped that somehow all that was inferred from the letter was merely a misjudgment on her part, but it is clear from Viyya’s expression that she, too, has understood the alarming implications. Negah, crouching at her aunt’s side, is wide-eyed. Only Lasaraleen, occupied with her baby, seems to be relatively calm, although upon closer inspection Aravis notices that she has gone pale.

“I think,” Aravis begins tentatively, breaking the silence. “That we should tell the Khasik.”

Negah shakes her head immediately. “She is the wife of the Tisroc (may he live forever), _and_ the daughter of Bilash Tarkaan. How could she possibly be yet uninvolved?”

“I spoke to her,” Aravis says, remembering the look in Durriya’s face when Ishaq Tarkaan had fallen to the ground, weighed down by his own degradation. “She is loyal to her husband, because she fears that her alliance to her father might spark a war. If Bilash is building an army, then he desires a war—though against whom, it is not clear.”

Negah lets out a mirthless laugh, her green eyes suddenly hard. “I know the ways of this palace, and the conspiracies it births. The same cunning and secrecy brought about the assassination of my father, and Adeben Tisroc’s second wife ( _on whom be the peace of the gods_ )—” she nearly spits out the phrase. “Was clearly involved.” She does not have to say what they all already know: Rabadash was not Crown Prince until he and his mother were rid of the brothers that stood in their way. “I do not trust the wives of Tisrocs; they have been contaminated by the same poison.”

Viyya speaks up, her eyes grave, but firm. “No one is in better position to loathe a man than his own wife,” she states. “But no creature is more opposed to war than a mother.”

“The Crown Prince is but a child,” Lasaraleen murmurs, looking down at her own.

Negah frowns. “And if we are wrong?”

“We need her,” Aravis replies. “If we intend to stop this madness, this war, whatever it is… we require someone who knows Bilash well.”

Negah sighs and stands up, walking towards the balcony, where the night seems impossibly clear for a night of such confusion. Aravis wonders, suddenly, what might have happened if Jarrash had not been killed—if Negah had truly become a Princess of Calormen. Would her life have been better or worse?

Viyya slowly begins to gather strings of yarn, pairing colors. “Send for the Khasik.”

###

Durriya arrives with two slaves in tow, her eyes burning with anger and worry. She removes her shawl and scarf, the silver bangle marking her as the Tisroc’s first wife gleaming in the light, and centers her gaze on Viyya, hostility apparent on her face. “You have sent for me with all manner of slanderous utterances; implications that my father is involved in…” she stops, and swallows, her expression pained. “This cannot be true.”

Negah stands beside the arch that leads out into the balcony, her expression hard, though her eyes are downcast.

Viyya reaches for a roll of white fabric and offers it to Durriya. “You may read the transcription yourself. The letter made things clear: he is raising an army, although his purpose is unknown to us.”

“What gives you the right to read another’s correspondence?”

Viyya smiles coldly. “You do understand how this might look if the Tisroc (may he live forever) is informed of it.” She points to an empty space in their half-circle. “Seat yourself, Khasik.”

Durriya does not move. Her eyes turn to Aravis. “What are you doing here, Tarkheena? Are you not allied with the barbarians?”

“Read the letter,” Aravis replies.

The Khasik snatches the transcription, her eyes moving over the words quickly. As she stands there, head bowed over the fabric, it seems that she crumbles inwards. When she is finished, her fist closes around it, her eyes wide, voice trembling with uncertainty.

“My father produces iron and weapons for the battlefield. He is accustomed to raising armies.”

“Yet he has not had to, under the reign of the _Peacemaker_ ¸has he?” Viyya replies, gazing at her calmly from where she sits on the carpet. “What cause has he to raise an army unknown to the Tisroc (may he live forever)?”

Durriya crosses her arms, and begins pacing from one wall to the other. Perhaps she fears that if she does not walk, her knees might give way beneath her. “If you are implying _treason_ —even if it were in any way believable that my father could commit such a crime—it is known that Tashbaan is impossible to penetrate; it is a fortress fit for a siege.”

Negah speaks up, her voice fierce. “Zadreh Tarkheena killed a possible informant out of fear that the truth would reach the barbarians. There is a conspiracy, Khasik, whether you choose to face it or not. Your father and Zadreh are keeping a secret from the Northerners.”

“What use have we to become involved with them at all?” Durriya exclaims suddenly, halting her pacing and pointing to Aravis. “I told you to stay away from our affairs. It is the barbarians’ meddling that has brought this about.”

“This has long been in the making,” Aravis snaps. “They have been _waiting_ for Archenland to arrive.”

Negah and Viyya glance at each other. Durriya turns away, her knuckles white. “An army—barbarians in Tashbaan—Zadreh and my father united… this makes no—”

She stops in her tracks, suddenly, even as Lasaraleen lets out a low gasp, bringing her hands to her mouth. Aravis looks at Lasaraleen questioningly, but her friend is not looking at her; instead, her eyes are fixed on some distant point, and she is shaking.

“I know the answer,” Lasaraleen gasps. “I know—I know what they are planning. _Oh_ , how absolutely _dreadful_!” Her eyes wide, she takes a deep breath and presses a hand to her heart as if she feels it might escape her body. “As we have said before… there is no use in assassinating Prince Corin. And yet Tehishbaan produces weapons and such, does it not? Bilash Tarkaan profits if we march on Archenland. But…”

Durriya’s gaze has lost its anger. Instead she goes pale, and for an instant Aravis fears she might faint. She steps towards Lasaraleen. “But he would need a reason for violence—for _vengeance_ … he would need to be rid of the Tisroc (may he live forever) so that he may take the North…”

Aravis feels her heart sink, her fear suddenly replaced by a much more complex and deadly nightmare.

“They do not intend to kill Corin. They intend to kill the Tisroc.”


	3. Chapter 3

The room has fallen silent, save for the sound of crickets in the Tisroc’s gardens, and the occasional murmur of courtier passing through the courtyard beneath them. Tashbaan itself seems to have fallen silent in the distance, as if to offer its own mourning in the face of the current situation.

“If they succeed, and frame Archenland as the murderers of the Tisroc… the consequences would be terrible,” Aravis says quietly, breaking the silence, her hands clutching the fabric of her skirt. “We must tell someone.”

Viyya’s hands have finally stilled on the weaver, her expression skeptical as she leaves the colored yarn to join them near the couch. “And what would we tell them, O my daughter? That Tehishbaan conspires against the Tisroc (may he live forever)? This they already know. Perhaps Khalid could be exposed, but evidence only implicates his wife. She would be executed, yet the threat would still remain.”

“We will tell no one,” Durriya interjects, desperation in her voice. “If the Tisroc (may he live forever) gets wind of this, surely he will punish my father and strip him of rank and title.”

“Your father is a traitor, Khasik,” Negah snaps.

Durriya faces her angrily. “And what of me, then? What of my son, the infant Prince? Would you see me executed when my husband finds that leaving Tehishbaan without a leader is more of a risk to him than letting my father live? What more fitting way to punish my father than to have me killed?” Her voice trembles, and finally, she lowers herself to the floor, clutching at her hair. “My child is yet young. If I am dead—”

“He shall not be told, neither shall you bear the brunt of your father’s sins.” Viyya shakes her head, sighing. “The only way to halt this disaster is to bring Zadreh and your father’s alliance to an end.” 

Negah’s fingers trace and smudge the charcoal drawings on the cloth before her. Her brow is furrowed. “Little time remains. I sense urgency from the words the Tarkaan in his letter. They intend to carry out their plan as swiftly as they can.”

“Darlings—” Lasaraleen hesitates upon realizing Durriya’s rank, and quickly corrects herself. “And Khasik. It is not so terribly difficult to turn a man against another, or a man against a woman, for that matter.” She pauses pensively. “In truth, it is not _quite_ surprising that Zadreh should take part in such a conspiracy when she is of the South, as is her husband’s mother.”

“They import wives as they import riches,” Aravis mutters.

“Yes, although I’ve always said that there is no use in wildly marrying every Tarkheena that catches your eye when all you’re doing is bringing more rebels into the castle.”

“It’s a cause for war,” Durriya murmurs, almost to herself. Then she looks up, and sees the others watching her. Her mouth twitches, and Aravis sees that there are unshed tears in her eyes, bitter and distraught. “My son has only reached his second autumn. My father likely seeks to protect me by keeping me away from his plans; but I know my father. He may make Ishaq Tisroc, and therefore, indirectly, Khalid… but he will kill Khalid before he allows him to usurp my son’s rightful place, and he will place himself directly in my son’s ear, and twist his will to match his own. He would have his own grandson march to war and to death itself.” She takes a long, shuddering breath. “I forgive all the harm my husband has caused me, although I will forever bear those scars. For at the very least, my husband will not steal my child’s love from me, nor propel him forward in this never-ending bloodthirst that lives in our men’s very breath.”

Gazing at the harsh intensity in Durriya’s expression, Aravis does not understand how she can forgive. In her rooms, elsewhere in the palace, her father’s letter still lies in ashes beside her bed, unread, untouched. She has heard the stories whispered about the Princes and their private lives, the shame that is endured by their women, the violence that they embrace. In the face of such a life alongside Ahoshta, she and placed a dagger to her chest and willed herself to die.

She wonders, now, what she might have thought, had she born Ahoshta a child. She wonders how it would have changed her.

But she remembers Rahmat; his boyish smile even under his Tarkaan’s beard, his joyful laughter and the affection he always had towards her, even when she was a girl, and not the sort of Tarkheena Calavar could be proud of. War took him; the bloodthirst of the country took him, the Tarkaans’ eternal lust for war took him. And she thinks that perhaps, she understands.

“Aravis.”

She returns to the present to find Lasaraleen looking at her.

“Perhaps your father could help.”

###

_Durriya Khasik to Bilash Tarkaan, in the name of Tash the irresistible, the inexorable._

_O my Father and O the delight of my eyes!_

_I trust that life in my beloved home province bestows upon you abundance and health. I often remember the olive groves surrounding our home and the wondrous chant of the nightingales; surely they are just as fair as I remember them? I cherish the memories of my time spent in that blessed city at your side. Perhaps one day my beloved husband the Tisroc (may he live forever) may travel westward, that I may walk upon those sweet paths again, and show them to my adored son, that he may come to know the land of his grandfather._

_It is upon the matter of my sweet Prince that I write to you, O my father. For I have grave concerns upon the matter of his health. Only yesterday I believed that his sickness had reached its peak, for his coughing had grown constant, so that his little lungs struggled to fill themselves with air. Yet this morning, he is paler than ever, and the coughing hardly seems to cease. I called a renowned healer to the palace to examine him, but he tells me it is merely a common cold. A common cold! In this weather, when I have care that none with sickness come in contact with my darling child! Yet Zadreh Tarkheena, the wise wife of Khalid Tarkaan, my husband’s brother, assures me that the healer is of the best sort—although I must admit I struggle to believe her, for the medicine she continues to bring does not seem to have effect. Indeed, I fear that my son’s health only worsens. Perhaps you can instruct my old nurse to send a collection of the herbs she used to apply in my childhood to me? I find that I trust Tehishbaan’s medicine best._

_Salutations and peace be upon you, O my generous Father._

_Your daughter Durriya_

“Such was the signification of the writing,” Durriya concludes in a low voice. “I will no longer risk exposure by visiting Viyya Tarkheena’s rooms, but you may communicate to her that our purpose is likely achieved. My father will delay his plans, for fear that Zadreh has anticipated his intentions to seize power from Khalid for his own bloodline, and decided to kill my son.”

She looks towards where the small Prince ambles about the flowerbeds, chasing his delighted nurses. The day is hot; Aravis wonders when autumn will truly arrive with the showers Tashbaan’s weather promises.

“It shall plant the seed of doubt, hopefully,” Aravis replies.

“I will be sure not to appear with my child publicly for the time being, lest the truth be made manifest to my father’s spies.”

They turn as the sound of footsteps echoes through the spacious corridor, and a slave-girl appears, head bowed. She curtsies. “Khasik, the Tisroc (may he live forever) has called his household to the Hall of Black Marble.”

“What is the occasion?”

“A great offering from the merchants of the city to the palace.”

When they arrive at the Hall of Black Marble, Durriya’s child left with his nurses in her private rooms, a large group has already assembled. Aravis quickly departs from Durriya’s side and joins Corin and Dar as they stand near the Tisroc himself and the more high-ranking Tarkaans. There are no Tashkhid present, nor Tarkaans from outside the palace. But some Tarkheenas are present; Aravis sees Viyya and Negah in the furthest corner. They do not look at her.

A delegation of merchants has spread out a lavish silken carpet before the Tisroc’s feet, and upon it is gathered the largest collection of precious gems that Aravis has ever seen. Rubies, emeralds and opals seem to form a blindingly lovely tapestry of color, in contrast with the black marble of the floor.

The merchants are Southern, clearly, their head-dresses different from the turbans of Tashbaan, although that is nearly all Aravis can see of them as they lie prostrate behind their offering, foreheads pressed against the marble as the Tisroc surveys their work.

“See, Prince Corin, how generous my people are, how faithful, how thankful!” Rabadash exclaims, swiveling to where Aravis and Corin are standing, his expression gleeful. “Do you see such riches in the North? Nay, the sands of Calormen forge gems more beautiful than any other, their splendor rivalled only by the sun itself.” He smiles, almost benevolently. “Have your pick, friend.”

Corin bows slightly, forcing a smile. “I could not dream of taking any treasure from its master,” he replies. “Surely it decorates your palace best.”

“Ah, but I have an abundance of it!” Rabadash cries, spreading his arms. “Very well, if you will not choose, then I shall choose for you. Slave,” he snaps his fingers, and one of his subjects bows his forehead to the ground, crawling backwards so as to not offer the Tisroc his back. “Chose thirty of the fairest gems to gift to our barbarian friends.”

They watch in silence as the slave crawls forth and picks the treasures from the ground. The scene feels strangely grotesque to Aravis, although she cannot pinpoint exactly what makes her wish to avert her eyes so. Perhaps it is the sight of one so lowly in society crawling among the sea of treasures, holding the fairest in his own cloak, preserved only for the benefit of those who already have countless treasures.

Corin cannot refuse them, although Aravis sees from the look in his eyes that he has had a similar reaction to her. She has a sudden urge to run from the hall and its dark floors; she feels as if they might suddenly become an abyss and swallow them all into their depths.

Rabadash’s smile has grown even wider, and the Tarkaans at his side speak among each other easily. The air turns suddenly informal, and the Tisroc draws closer to Corin, reaching out to pat him on the back. “Bear this token to your father; thirty gems will hardly keep a country afloat, but it is a symbol of Calormen’s good will.”

The insult is hardly even veiled, but to Corin’s credit, he hardly flinches. “I would gladly exchange all riches for the assurance of holding your _Food of the gods_ in my hands to bear back to my people.” And then he glances at the gems, and back at Rabadash’s face. “Thirty gems can easily be carried upon the back of one donkey.”

The smile on the Tisroc’s lips is like a mask, permanently affixed to his lower face. His eyes remain on Corin, and for a moment Aravis fears that he might draw a sword and strike Corin down where he stands. But Corin’s expression is calm, only his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of the insult. They seem to stand in a silent battle.

Then Rabadash turns away and looks, rather, at the group of veiled Tarkheenas that is closest to him, releasing out a breath of feigned satisfaction. When he looks back at Corin, the hostility is gone from his gaze so quickly that it is hard to imagine that it has existed at all. He lets out a prideful chuckle.

“I must admit, Prince, that there are no women on this land fairer than my wives—to such an extent that I must keep them hidden, that no other covets their beauty. Yet because, for these weeks alone, you are a part of my household, you shall see them.” And he waves a hand, which halts the conversation of the nearest Tarkaans and causes the Tarkheenas to bow their heads; Aravis recognizes Durriya at the very front, although her face is now covered. “Take a gem each, O delights of my soul, and be content.”

Conversation rises again about them, and the Tisroc draws Corin aside, Dar following them closely, his hand seeming to twitch with the urge to place it on his sword-hilt. They retreat to a raised dais on the side of the Hall, where seats have been arranged. Rabadash seems calm, and Corin wears his pretense well, though Aravis sees how white his knuckles have become.

Aravis chooses to stay, and watches the women sift through the different gems to find the ones that suit them best. Jewelry in the Tisroc’s palace is lavish, and gems from the Southern mines are particularly prized for their exquisite beauty. Lasaraleen was once gifted three of them when she still lived in Mezreel, and Aravis hadn’t heard the end of it for months.

Presently, she overhears Durriya’s voice floating above the noise of the Tarkaans and courtesans deep in conversation.

“My father has long aspired to forge an alliance between Tehishbaan and the smiths of the South, for then our jewels would rival even the make of the barbarian dwarves of the North. It is his dream to one day find his home in the South.”

Aravis turns. Rabadash has heard. His eyes are fixed on Durriya, despite the fact that Corin is clearly speaking to him.

On the opposite side of the room, Khalid Tarkaan stiffens.

As the delegation finally leaves the Hall of Black Marble, slaves carrying sacks of treasure, Viyya walks over to Aravis. Her steps have been slowed by age, but there is a roguish smile playing on her lips.

“My gift to the Tisroc (may he live forever); the merchants were happy to comply.” Her voice grows serious. “The Khasik played her part well. Now, it is your turn.”

###

Corin collapses into a chair. Placing his head in his hands, he stares at her incredulously. “So we’re to save Rabadash? _Rabadash_ , who nearly kidnapped Queen Susan and stormed Archenland on an ambush?

“It could be a blessing,” he adds darkly, though by the gleam in his eye Aravis sees that he is joking. “If the Tisroc indeed _does_ live forever, I don’t think the policy on _Food of the gods_ is likely to change. We could use someone less obsessed with what the Tashkhid think of trade matters. I’m beginning to go mad from Qannar’s far-fetched praise; as if his own king wasn’t once a donkey.”

Aravis sees no humor in his remark. “If someone kills Rabadash, you’re left with a new Tisroc who will cease trade altogether. Khalid—or Bilash—will be against the Tashkhid, yes, but—”

“But he will also blatantly oppose any alliance with the North,” Corin finishes the sentence for her. “I know, I know. But I still don’t see how we factor into this, or under what excuse they could bring in an army.”

“They would declare war on Archenland,” Aravis replies quietly. “And bring back the culture of war this empire has fostered for centuries. Bilash has raised an army large enough for him to profit from the war, and defeat Calavar as the greatest provider of wartime support. As for us…” she takes a deep breath. “Well, you can imagine what happens to us if we are in Tashbaan when all of this happens.”

Corin drags his hands through his hair and then rubs his eyes tiredly. Then he looks up at Aravis, who is still sitting still in her seat, her eyes boring into the ground between them with determination.

“So what do you propose we do?” he asks.

###

When Rabadash appears, escorted by a multitude of slaves and white-turbaned figures from the Tashkhid, Qannar Tarkaan throws himself onto the edge of the stone-paved path, crying out praise for the Tisroc, and glowers at Aravis from over the crook of his arm when she does not do the same. She and Corin remain standing beside the fountain of glittering water in the furthest side of the palace gardens, where large arches, heavily guarded, lead to the Temple of Tash at the peak of the mount upon which Tashbaan is constructed.

“It is customary to invite highly-esteemed guests to our most sacred spots, where the glory of the gods is most manifest,” Qannar stiffly explained to them before they left the palace. “It is the Tisroc’s wish (may he live forever) that all nations be touched by the hand of Tash, and so cured of all maladies and evils.”

The look in his eyes clearly communicated that surely Archenland is too consumed by evils for there to be hope of absolution.

Rabadash all but ignores Aravis, sweeping past them to walk at the head of the delegation, and finally turning to Corin as if to generously grant him his attention. Aravis watches warily from behind them as Corin increases his pace to keep with the Tisroc. She can see a vein pulsing in his neck. He has been growing increasingly irritable as of late, and frankly, Aravis is surprised that he has remained calm for so long.

As they cross the archway, the sunlight hits the immense silver-plated dome of the Temple, dazzling against the sky. Fragrant gardens reach out in rows, converging on the edge of the smooth floors of the Temple itself, where colossal arches open into the very center of the building, the white stone interior illumined from hundreds of skylights, like a glowing lantern.

Turbaned men stroll on the grounds in the shade between the arches, discussing matters of theology— _or politics_ , Aravis suspects. But upon sighting the Tisroc and Prince Corin approaching, they fall still and invariably fall to the ground in veneration. Rabadash pays them no heed as the group passes through the largest of the arches.

Inside, the air is cool, and the walls stretch out to the skies, impossibly high. Their company has fallen silent. Aravis looks behind her and sees the group of Tashkhid following silently, eyes downcast. A chill runs down her spine.

Lord Dar falls into step alongside her. His gaze has been momentarily drawn away from Corin, the quiet peace of the Temple overcoming fear of sabotage. He is a broad, tall man, but he seems to shrink between the towering walls.

“Are they all like this?” he murmurs, so only she can hear. “The Calormen temples?”

Aravis looks up at the skylights, and at the galleries of the second and third floor that open into the gigantic altar hall. Sheer, white curtains flutter overhead with the draft, and occasional shadows fall across them as people praying perform their rites.

“This is the Temple of Tash, the greatest in the empire,” she tells Dar quietly. “But there are lesser Temples elsewhere. My mother used to travel to Zalindreh when she was a girl, to the Temple of Azaroth. It is small, but more intricate.”

She does not remember her mother much; Rahmat had been the one to tell her stories, often under his breath, as if speaking of her out loud would make the grief return. Aravis has never been to the Temple of Azaroth—but as the hall widens into the very center of the circle, beneath the tallest point of the dome, and Tash himself rises up, beak raised to the heavens: an iron figure larger even than the giants Aravis has seen illustrations of. The light shines through the figure’s gaping eyes, in the gaps between its claws, in the spaces between its ribs.

“Are you yet devout, Aravis Tarkheena?”

She turns. Dar has left her side, joining Corin some feet away. A white-turbaned man, his beard grey and trailing down to mid-chest, is surveying her through slightly narrowed eyes.

“I am Guram Tashkhad of this Temple,” he explains when she does not respond. “Your father is a cherished friend of mine.”

Aravis does not say _I have never heard of you_. Kidrash Tarkaan had spent more time discussing his enemies than his friends. Her mind returns to the letter she burned, and unease courses through her like a wave; she knows that her father has spies in Tashbaan—all successful Tarkaans have them, in one way or another—but if he has even one of the Tashkhid in his pocket…

Guram merely continues speaking, as if he did not expect her to respond in the first place. “I have heard of your tale—a renegade Tarkheena gone to live among the barbarians. I have often wondered if it is possible to persist in your rites, or if the Northerners have extricated you faith as well as your loyalty.”

His eyes are hard. In the quietness of the Temple, with the only noise around them being the murmur of fabric on fabric, and the lightly echoing footsteps of people softly slipping by, Guram’s harsh words sound like the grating of horses’ hooves on the stone path leading to her father’s house, where Alimash arrived bearing Rahmat’s body. They sound like Ahosta’s groveling; like her stepmother’s voice when she brought her the news of her engagement. Like the sound of the skin of her own back, ripping open.

Her jaw clenches, but she forces herself to remain calm. “In the North, my will is my own,” she states, her voice low and cold. “I find that I would rather worship Tash in the valleys and forests of Archenland than in the cage my father constructed for me.”

She turns and walks away from him, towards the gigantic clawed feet of Tash, which gleam metallically over the altar. The scent of incidence fills the air. She finds herself measuring the gaps between each claw and feels in her back the faint, ghostly memory of the pain Aslan’s punishment caused her.

She knows that the Calormenes believe her a traitor to culture and religion. Whispers of the _demon god_ of the North are no longer whispers, after Rabadash’s shocking transformation. And she knows, also, that the people in Archenland have harbored their doubts— _does she worship the bird-god?_

But Aravis has never felt that desperate urge to divide, to classify either Tash or Aslan as false and then worship the other. She cannot, of course, ever believe Aslan to be false; not after seeing Him and speaking to Him. But what are the odds that she, a mere child, would have gotten a chance to see the Lion with her own eyes, when most have never done so at all in their lifetime? Who is she to say that Tash is false, when she has not seen him? An old poem rings through her mind: _Is not the essence of faith to believe?_

She looks back. Guram has retreated to his company, muttering remarks to the others. Rabadash has sunk to his knees by the altar some feet away, and has begun to perform the rites of prayer with particular embellishment, knowing well that all eyes are on him. She wonders what tales he has spun to attempt to be rid of the story of his transformation from a donkey; she knows that surely the Tashkhid have milked the story for all its worth in order to strengthen the people’s fear of North, as well as intensify their faith in Tash’s all-encompassing power.

She looks up at Tash’s head, now too high up for her to discern its features, and murmurs a quick prayer.

Rabadash finally returns to Corin and the rest of the assembly, straightening his pointed cap. He does not give the altar another glance.

They walk back to the palace together, the Tashkhid remaining behind. Aravis meets Guram’s eyes one last time—his expression is foreboding. She cannot bring herself to care. Her neglect in responding to her father’s letter is enough of a statement; nothing he can tell Kidrash Tarkaan could cause more damage.

Qannar Tarkaan quickly steps in her way as she is about to join Corin, where he walks with the Tisroc.

“It would not be seemly to disrupt the Tisroc (may he live forever) and his honored guest,” he hisses.

Aravis offers him an icy smile. “Then why are you in my way?”

Corin glances at her as she joins his side, keeping pace with Rabadash. Rabadash studiously ignores her—and therefore misses the meaningful look that crosses between them.

“In my inquiries as to the South I have been pleasantly surprised,” Corin remarks amiably, looking up at the blue sky as they cross the gardens, the cool air ruffling his hair. His cheeks are already reddened from the sun of the last week. “Calormen has been hiding its crown jewel from the rest of the world.”

Rabadash looks pleased, although he tries to hide it. “We are jealous lovers of our own land.”

“Yet the South is not quite a province of yours, is it?” Corin continues, casually perplexed. “Neither is it its own sovereign state. The situation here is unclear to me.”

“As far as I am aware,” Aravis tells Corin, when Rabadash does not reply. “They are ruled by their own—yet Tarkaans are… _informally_ … stationed throughout the region, directing produce to the rest of the country.”

Rabadash finally looks at her, his expression inscrutable except for his eyes, with flash once threateningly, before he returns his gaze to the Prince. “The particulars of the tribes South of Teebeth are yet being deliberated. To foreign concern, they are of the empire.”

His tone is final. Corin nods once, remaining composed. As they approach the double doors that lead into the palace, Corin falls back from Rabadash and beckons Dar to his side.

“Find me a Southerner who can lead me to the appropriate authority… and inquire as to what plants they cultivate.”

His voice is low, but Aravis, still near the Tisroc, sees that Rabadash has heard.

###

The sound of the baby’s tiny fist rapping on her door pulls Aravis out of her thoughts. The slave that has been tidying up the sitting room promptly opens the door and Lasaraleen walks in, her child giggling on her arm.

“Darling, I was expecting that you would visit today. I expect the palace sees me more than my own husband!” she plops down on Aravis’ bed and lays the baby down on his back.

Aravis, sitting by the windowsill, grimaces apologetically. “Sorry. I’ve been…” she looks down at the rolled-up sleeve of fabric Kidrash Tarkaan’s letter had come in. “I intended to go after finishing. I should have sent word.”

Lasaraleen looks scandalized. “I expected that you’d sent it yesterday already—every second counts!”

“I know,” Aravis snaps, running a hand through her hair. She has a headache already.

Her sleep has become more restless, lately. In spite of the overwhelming evidence that the conspiracy truly threatens to assassinate Rabadash, not Corin, she continues to have nightmares where Corin is killed. In some cases, she finds Cor dead alongside him. She knows that it is imperative to resolve the issue as soon as possible; to put danger behind them, secure the trade, and return to Anvard before something terrible happens. Corin is frustrated with the current situation—but Aravis cannot return if the journey is not fruitful. Merely imagining standing before King Lune and confessing her failure…  

And yet she cannot bring herself to write. The pen in her hand trembles.

Lasaraleen is chattering on, quite oblivious. “I’d forgotten how lovely the seal of Calavar is; I’ve always found the horse and flowers quite charming… this bit looks quite a lot like andaruni script, don’t you think?”

She only looks up when she the pen drops from Aravis’ hand and Aravis pulls her legs up to her chin, pressing her forehead to her knees.

She cannot think of her father. She cannot write as if she were him. The memory of his words, memories which once may have been fond ones, now only bring her pain. The unfairness of circumstance—of the decisions he made, of the cruelty of the fate he chose for her—have forever embittered the taste of those recollections.

Her hands are shaking. She cannot write.

“ _Aravis_.” Lasaraleen hastily places plump cushions around the baby and rushes to her side, placing her hands on Aravis’ elbows. And it seems that in that quiet moment, she understands. “Look, I can write it for you…”

Aravis shakes her head and draws in a shuddering breath. “I know how my father writes; it can only be me.”

“Then dictate it, and I shall write.”

She scoffs. “Your handwriting is much too flowery—they will immediately know it is you.”

Lasaraleen looks miffed, but benevolently hides it. Aravis runs a shaking hand over her face. Of all the things she has had to do so far, this _cannot_ be the one that defeats her. She has run from her father and from Calavar, she has escaped from Tashbaan—and she has had the strength to return once more, for the sake of Archenland and her people. For the sake of the King. For the sake of Cor.

She takes the pen once more.

_Kidrash Tarkaan to Khalid Tarkaan, salutation and peace,_

_In the name of Tash the irresistible, the inexorable._

_News has reached my ears of a stirring in the West, its main proponent being the pestiferous Bilash Tarkaan of Tehishbaan, with whom I expect both you and I are well acquainted. I speak to you now as a long-time ally of the Tisroc (may he live forever) and his father (on whom be the peace of the gods), who thrice blessed both myself and Calavar my province with the honor of bearing the empire’s most prominent men into battle upon the swiftest, strongest steeds our armies have ever known. My words, as such, shall be stated openly for your benefit, that you may see clearly my intentions. That you have rivals in Tashbaan who oppose your counsel is known to me; I emphasize to you that although my alliance with many of the same personages has been, and remains, strong, this is on account of our many interactions on the sphere of war, and is in no way related to the political deliberations in which yourself and said personages are entangled._

_Calavar has always remained separate from the matter of provinces and their incorporation. It is my hope that it shall continue to be so. Yet recent stirrings in Tehishbaan have made me wary. It is said among the well-informed that Bilash intends to take the South for himself, given the tentative leeway the Tisroc’s refusal (may he live forever) of it may grant him. You know well that Tehishbaan has long aspired to overcome Calavar in riches and recognition; Bilash has already raised a cavalry in an attempt to rival ours, and his greed seems never-ending. I am aware of your ties to the South, and the particular interest you have always had for that land. I trust I need not detail here the implications an appropriation by Tehishbaan’s Tarkaans would have._

_I find myself concerned for both my province and my country, and I believe that the same concern fuels your daily deliberations in the Tisroc’s palace (may he live forever). Be it known, then, that my daughter Aravis Tarkheena is now in Tashbaan, petitioning alongside the Barbarian Prince. Through her newfound position, we may find an effective opening together, were you to ally yourself with us. If so, I kindly request that all communications between us be carried out through her, as I fear that spies may have infiltrated Azim Balda and our correspondence may be monitored._

_I believe it would be to both our interests to see the South acquired by the Tisroc himself (may he live forever), once and for all, and so halt the festering treachery of Tehishbaan._

_  
I commit you to the care of the gods._  
_Kidrash Tarkaan son of Rishti Tarkaan of Calavar_

Lasaraleen sighs and nods. “That should do it.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sunny days seem never-ending in Tashbaan, even in autumn. The showers normally expected in the season have yet to begin, and so the Tisroc holds yet another river party on the edge of the Nun, smooth wooden boats carrying them around the city walls, beside the banks where living creatures thrive.

Granted a space in Negah’s personal boat, where Salya and two other slaves shield them from the ears of the boatman that rows them over the river, Aravis quickly runs her eyes over the letter, away from the eyes of the rest of the party.

“How did you procure this?” she breathes.

Negah smiles. “The horseman approached from Azim Balda as we left the citadel. Salya is clever and posed as Zadreh’s slave.”

Salya smiles slyly from where she sits, occupied with rinsing apricots in the water.

“And how do you intend to deliver it?”

Negah shrugs, looking further down the river, where another boat bears Zadreh Tarkheena and her slaves, who fan her in the heat of the day. Having seen her mostly from a distance, she seems to Aravis like a frighteningly imposing figure, her broad body a dark shadow against the glimmering waters. “Another of my slaves shall give the letter to one of hers—the girl will doubtless be ashamed to know that her job was done by another; therefore it is unlikely that word of it ever being in our possession should reach the Tarkheena.” Negah looks satisfied. “Bilash Tarkaan has done as expected, and withdrawn his support momentarily. We draw closer to victory.”

“I dare not look to the horizon yet. There is still a way to go.” Aravis lets her hand drag through the cool water, glancing down to see the minuscule dark shadows of fish racing past them. “His excuse is that the army was not ready, after all—Durriya’s plan has gone well. But we must divide them once and for all, before they have time to concoct another plan.”

“If all goes well, Khalid will approach you before long.”

When they reach the dock, where boatmen await to assist the Tarkheenas to the safety of the shore, Aravis finds Corin fidgeting near a cluster of rosebushes. He pulls her aside.

“By the Lion, if that thickheaded Qannar approaches me _one more time_ with his backhanded comparisons of Calormen and Archenland, I _shall_ box him.”

Aravis rolls her eyes. “Please attempt not to start an international incident.”

They walk on the narrow gravel path that leads through a fig grove, Corin having to duck slightly to avoid scraping his head against low-hanging branches. She watches him take deep breaths of the fresh air, away from the crowd that convenes around musicians—she can hear the sound of their instruments in the distance—and can see the signs of weariness in his eyes. She wonders if he is not sleeping well, either.

“Should I be pressing the matter of the trade?”

Aravis shakes her head. “No. Act satisfied. If he believes you have already found the solution elsewhere it will alarm him.”

Corin nods. Then he stops, glancing back at the docks, which are visible through the tree trunks. “Who are they?”

“Who?” Aravis looks in the same direction, at the shimmering fabrics of the Tarkheenas’ clothes as they alight on solid ground.

“The women… the ones who are helping us.” Corin is frowning slightly. “We should thank them.”

“I doubt there’ll be an opportunity to do so officially,” Aravis replies. “Their success rests heavily on the fact that no one knows what they do.”

And perhaps they would see no use in being thanked, Aravis reflects, as she and Corin return to the party, where large platters of food are being served, their delicious scents wafting over the garden. The women carry out their plans not for the good of Archenland, necessarily, but for the good of Calormen, as well. Although friendships and family do play a role in their interactions, Viyya’s group is strategic. That their plans align, in this case, with the interest of the North, is merely a welcome coincidence.

Aravis takes some satisfaction in imagining Qannar Tarkaan’s face if he knew how much took place because of women—those _emotionally fragile_ women.

When the meal ends, Aravis stands near Viyya as Tashbaan’s most renowned living poets are brought forth to recite before the assembly. Most are stories Aravis has already heard: of Ardeeb Tisroc’s construction of the glorious Temple and the intervention of Tash himself; of the great war of Adeben Tisroc against the rebels; of the mighty gallop of the Tarkaans to take Zalindreh. The irony of tales of war in times of such smothering peace is not lost on Aravis, especially when the greatest tale of recent times, by far, is the march of Rabadash the Ridiculous from Anvard to the Temple of Tash.

There is a slight shift in the crowd behind them, and Aravis sees Durriya approach them out of the corner of her eye. Viyya also notices, but does not move her attention from the poet currently describing the blood-stained sands of Zalindreh with florid words.

“How much longer must I hide my child?” Durriya murmurs, her voice barely even a whisper. None of the people near them seem to notice their exchange.

Viyya responds promptly. “Until Khalid approaches Aravis. Then you must relay the information of their meeting to your father’s spies—I trust you know them well by now—and their ties will be severed completely.”

Durriya lets out a breath of irritation. “We are counting on very little, expecting them to halt their plans merely out of suspicion.”

“We are counting on their pettiness and fear,” Viyya asserts. “They know that they cannot succeed without each other.”

There is silence for a moment, and the poet finally concludes his tale. Applause rings throughout the clearing, some of the more tipsy Tarkaans letting out battle cries. Ishaq Tarkaan falls face-first against the table, unsurprisingly. Durriya seizes the opportunity to speak without being noticed, under the cover of the noise.

“The Tashkhid are concerned about the barbarian Prince directing his riches towards trade with the South, and are antagonizing the Tisroc (may he live forever) about it.” She looks at Aravis directly, now, and Aravis turns just enough to meet her eye. Durriya is staring at her earnestly. “The plant you seek grows there, also. It would be a feasible plan.”

Aravis returns her gaze to where the crowd is looking. “It would still be too far and therefore much too expensive. Our plan with the South is but a front.”

“Well, my husband is certainly concerned. The plan is succeeding.”

Viyya smiles, pulling her shawl closer around herself despite the heat of the day. “Whisper in his ear, Khasik. In such manner do kingdoms fall.”

###

Khalid does send word—late in the night, when the palace courtiers have retreated to their rooms and there is less risk of being seen. As Aravis walks through the echoing corridors towards the Tarkaan’s study, she wonders what would be worse: to be seen in broad daylight, or risking being seen conversing with Khalid late in the night.

But the trip passes smoothly, and soon she is inside the study, face-to-face with the Tarkaan, four male slaves guarding the doors and watching her, as if she might suddenly attack him.

Khalid is a tall man, with pronounced cheekbones and a beard dyed crimson at the tips. His resemblance to Rabadash is undeniable. He stands near the window, brow furrowed, and only turns to look at her properly when she is already midway to him.

“Your father must hold you at high esteem, Tarkheena, to lay this enterprise upon your shoulders.”

He is staring at her curiously, as one would observe a strange, ugly creature that has nonetheless demonstrated interesting behavior. Aravis knows he is sizing up the threat that she presents, and feels a sudden thrill go through her. His hatred, she can tolerate—indeed, she can use it to her favor; it is derision that she could not stand.

“He knows that I can help him achieve his goal,” she replies calmly, masking the fact that her stomach churns at the mention of her father. Kidrash Tarkaan would never entrust her with such a duty. “Are you steadfast in your decision to join us?”

Khalid’s face twitches and he looks away, grimacing. He exhales deeply, crossing his arms over his chest. “You say you can persuade the Tisroc (may he live forever) to incorporate the South,” he begins haughtily. “I have yet to see how this is possible. You are but a Tarkheena of Calavar, with no voice here.”

“I am the right hand of the Prince of Archenland, and an ambassador for the King. The Tisroc is negotiating with _me_ , reluctant as he may be to admit it.”

The Tarkaan grinds his teeth. Aravis remains standing, with her feet planted firmly on the ground, refusing to fidget as he paces towards the window again, his back to her.

“And this endeavor—is the Prince involved, as well? What interest has he in the affairs of this empire?” He glances at her over his shoulder, his expression dark. “I will not be unfaithful to my country.”

His implication is clear. She is a traitor to Calormen, a disgrace to the empire. The irony is almost comical. Aravis raises her chin, holding his gaze nonchalantly.

“As you know, the Prince and I have journeyed here with the intention of securing a trade of _Food of the gods_ between both countries. The Tashkhid have opposed our proposal, and diminished our chances of success. But I will not leave Tashbaan without it.” As the words leave her mouth, Khalid turns, arms still crossed in front of him like a shield, his eyes narrowed. She continues regardless. “This is where our interests align. The Prince is now beginning conversations that imply interest in trade with the South instead. The Tashkhid have scarce authority there.”

He scoffs. “A naïve solution.”

She shakes her head. “The quantity of the payment being discussed is not one we are really willing to offer. But we have discreetly allowed the numbers to reach the ears of the Tashkhid. They are furious.”

Khalid turns away slightly, once more, but Aravis catches the look of satisfaction in his expression. His hatred of the Tashkhid is powerful—perhaps even more powerful than his ambition to take the throne for himself.

“The Tashkhid have strangled my every attempt to convince my brother of the imperative nature of establishing a fair provincial government among the Southern tribes,” he states, bitterness permeating his tone. He is ruminating, his eyes darting back and forth in the air. “Their desire to exploit and flee from the responsibilities of governance never ceases to sicken me.” He takes a hesitant breath, shaking his head slightly, as if he can scarcely believe his own words. “The plan is far-fetched, but not impossible. They might bite the bait.”

“They will. They will never allow us to trade with the South.”

And there is also the matter of Bilash Tarkaan’s sudden unexplainable mistrust in Khalid’s wife and her interactions with his grandson—and the clumsily explained reasons for the delay in their conspiracy. Aravis wonders if it has occurred to him that word might reach Bilash of his newfound alliance with Calavar through her… if so, he does not seem to mind, his reluctance to cooperate mostly hinging on the fact that she is a woman, rather than Kidrash Tarkaan’s daughter.

“And what part am I to take in this?” he demands.

“Stay close to the Tisroc. Repeat to him once more the counsels you have offered in the past, be there when the pressure of the Tashkhid grows unbearable to him. And when the moment comes, make your proposal.” As the words leave her mouth, she realizes that she is essentially giving orders—and even more surprisingly, that he has subtly asked her to do so.

“And if it works,” Khalid asks. “How will this lead to you procuring the transaction you desire?”                                                                                 

“It gives the impression of utter desperation.”

“And?”

“There is a rumor that Tehishbaan has been accumulating an army—a mutiny of sorts, perhaps directed towards the South, perhaps elsewhere.” She holds his gaze. “What will the Tisroc believe when he catches wind that the Prince might strike a deal with Bilash Tarkaan?”

Khalid stares at her in silence for a long moment, his jaw tense, eyes narrowed. He towers above her, but she feels oddly powerful, standing in the center of the room, even when surrounded by his own guards. He is still trying to read her.

Aravis hopes he does.

Then his jaw unclenches, his brow unfurrows, and he breathes in deeply. They stand looking at each other.

“Very well, Tarkheena,” he says.

When she reaches her rooms once more, Aravis reaches under her mattress and removes a strip of white cloth. Seizing the pen from the desk, she quickly makes three markings: a spiral, twin lines, and one dot. _It is done_.

When it dries, she folds it tightly until it resembles a mere handkerchief, and gives it to a slave.

“Take this to the Khasik.”

###

Aravis cannot stand remaining in the palace all day, wondering what is happening. Durriya has sent a small piece of white cloth as confirmation that she received the message; and Bilash Tarkaan should be receiving the news that Khalid has met with Aravis, establishing a connection with Calavar, Tehishbaan’s rival province, today. But the information does not seem to flow fast enough, dependent as they are upon time and the skillful eavesdropping of others. And they do not know enough of what is happening with Rabadash.

So in the early afternoon, Aravis makes her way down to the outer gardens of the citadel, where wagons and litters and groups of men and soldiers leave dirt prints on the smooth stone-paved road. Salya is with her, relaying the last bits of information read from the cloth wrapped inside her sleeve, before moving on to Negah, or Viyya, and slaves cover her from the view of those who pass by—although most are focused enough on their tasks that it’s doubtful that they would notice her either way.

She remains there for some time, pretending to read in the shadow of a large tree, partially hidden. It feels much too conspicuous, especially when time drags on past half an hour, but finally she catches sight of a familiar litter. At a sign from her, the slaves fall back, and she races through the small path that leads up to the paved road, and springs amidst the slaves, jumping up into the litter.

Lasaraleen stares at her in shock. “ _Aravis_!”

“Close the curtains.”

For once, Lasaraleen does not protest. She sits up from her reclining position, closing the curtains around them and making space for Aravis to sit where her feet had once been. “Where are we going?” she whispers, smiling excitedly.

Aravis glances through the gap between the curtains, and then gestures towards the left. “Tell them to take us to the Temple.”

Lasaraleen stares at her with wide eyes, and then relays the order. With a slight shift in pacing, the litter begins moving away from the palace, towards the road that leads around the gardens and through the royal entrance to the Temple of Tash.

“I suppose this isn’t really a visit to pray, is it?” Lasaraleen whispers loudly. “Now I’m glad that I left the baby at home—what fun! I must say, I was rather peeved when you just sent for me with no explanation… but it’s all right now. Oh, how marvelously fun!”

Aravis glares at her. “We’re not doing this because it’s _fun._ ”

Lasaraleen narrows her eyes playfully. “Admit that you think it a _little_ fun.”

“You still have no idea what it is we’re going to do!”

And Lasaraleen does, in fact, fall silent when Aravis finally relays her plan. She remains silent during the rest of the journey, as they listen to the voices of people and the sound of the wind in palm trees nearby, against a backdrop of the distant noises of the city. It is only when the litter is lowered, and they slip quietly into the Temple through the door reserved for those entering by the palace, that Lasaraleen clutches her arm.

“We cannot _possibly_ —”

Aravis seizes her hand in hers and pulls her as inconspicuously as possible towards the staircase that leads into the gallery above. Beyond, Tash’s large, clawed foot gleams ominously. “We’re already here.”

Lasaraleen keeps her head bowed as they walk up the staircase, as hurriedly as they can without drawing attention. “Could it not have been a slave?” she hisses.

“You’re the one who was so adamant about wanting to go on _mad adventures_. Hurry.”

It is an active hour inside the main room Temple. Common people of Tashbaan have gathered around the altar; Aravis can hear their murmured prayers, a buzz in the echoing building. Courtiers and some Tarkaans pass them like silent shadows. High-born people do not frequent the Temple much in these hours; although Aravis thinks she sees the Grand Vizier prostrate on the floor of one of the rooms they pass.

They reach a more deserted end of the gallery, where the curtained rooms reserved for private prayer are mostly empty. White curtains flutter in the light breeze, tangling with Aravis’ skirt. She pulls Lasaraleen along with her, and finally, to a small wooden door that is mostly covered with a white curtain.

Lasaraleen’s wide eyes turn questioning at the sight of it, but she understands immediately when she sees that the gallery ends directly after it. The door leads out to the roof; where people are often placed to drop flower petals upon the crowd in the event of royal weddings, or to clean the skylights that open into the rooms adjacent to the Temple—the meeting rooms of the priests of Tash.

Aravis turns the handle. The door remains shut. She pushes softly at first, and then harder, but it is quickly evident that the door is locked.

Lasaraleen rolls her eyes and sighs. Aravis is about to retort, but falls silent when Lasaraleen reaches into the dark curtain of her hair and retrieves a jeweled pin, then kneels before door. In a moment, it is unlocked and opened.

But upon seeing the height at which they are, the smooth, white roof of the rooms adjacent to the Temple nearly blinding with reflected sunlight, the roof of the palace visible at their right, even Aravis stops short for a moment, momentarily overwhelmed by the impulsiveness of her own plan. The skylights are large rectangles on the roof, covered with sheer glass, the edges of each rectangle stained into multicolored squares, throwing a tapestry of light into the rooms below.

They close the door softly behind them, and creep against the Temple wall, towards the third skylight. Lasaraleen has permanently fixed her hand to her mouth, as if to hold back a scream of panic, and even Aravis can feel hear heart beating violently against her chest. They keep to the wall to avoid being seen by those below; but she wonders what would happen, were someone to catch sight of them here, were someone to come do the cleaning at precisely the wrong moment…

The reach the skylight of the Tashkhid’s deliberation room, and kneel on the floor, staying away from the window itself and the rays of light so that their shadow does not fall upon the men below. Lasaraleen kneels almost in a prayerful position, clutching at Aravis’ elbow, the silver embroidery on her dress shimmering violently in the bright light of the roof.

Aravis holds her ear near the window, and finds, with a rush of relief, that she can hear the words coming from below. The Tashkhid have gathered.

“…Tisroc should have stretched out his arm long ago and murdered the traitor.”

“A gifted poet has said, _better an enemy known than unpredictable enemy._ We have already pondered on this matter before. A dead Bilash Tarkaan does nothing for us. He must be obstructed in his plans to such an extent that his ambition is choked.”

“Let us not forget the Barbarian Prince. My spies tell me one of his companions, the Lord Dar, has been inquiring as to the extent of the lands of the South, of their crops, and the potential of the settlers there in trading with the North. They wish to direct their request to the South, and receive our holy leaf from their crop.”

There is a loud bang, as if someone has brought down their fist on a table. “The South is ours. By Tash, how shamelessly do these barbarians seek to seize what is not theirs!”

There are murmurs that Aravis cannot hear through the glass. For a moment she fears that she will hear no more. Lasaraleen draws nearer, somewhat braver, and stares at her inquisitively when she hears nothing. Aravis holds a finger to her lips.

But in a moment, another voice rises above the others, and they can hear it clearly.

“The Tisroc (may he live forever) is a fool for not anticipating this. Inviting the Barbarians into Tashbaan has been most foolhardy. Now we dance to entertain, we sing to please, we act as if such blasphemous animals can be considered our allies. _Rabadash the Ridiculous_ indeed. He shames our empire.”

Lasaraleen’s eyes are wide, her hand still clamped over her mouth.

One of the earlier voices speaks up. “I prefer him to his father.”

“At least with him we had war. We have degraded into a shameful state, frolicking among the flowers like children. Where are the days when our men rode victorious into battle, and the sound our chariots was feared in every corner of the world?”

“These issues are only coming to a head. We have always known that one day we would have to decide what would be done with the South.”

“Khalid Tarkaan has been advocating for the taking, not knowing how much we will lose from establishing something with them. I will not bow to Khalid and grant him his request.”

“Khalid is a fool. His dreams are irrelevant. Bilash is a much more dangerous opponent—we must be wary of him. If he takes the South, his territory expands tenfold. Tehishbaan is already a potential rebel state that we struggle to suppress. If he has Southern riches in his hand, he could utterly wreck the order of this empire.”

“The sword is double-edged. It must be deflected at all costs.”

Half an hour later, Lasaraleen still trembling slightly, they reach Aravis’ rooms. Ordering supper, they sit together on the cushioned chairs, and Lasaraleen regains some of her previous bravado. But Aravis’ mind is racing—and it does not stop, until there is a knock, and Salya appears, slightly breathless.

She curtsies, clutching at her skirts as she catches her breath. “O my mistress, the Tisroc has declared the South a sister province.”


	5. Chapter 5

There are no more bloodstains in spot where Aini died. The stone has been scrubbed clean long ago, and the only difference between them and now is a new rosebush that has been planted in the spot where her ankle caught in a flowerbed. Aravis wonders what the fall would be like now; more painful, perhaps, given the rosebush thorns.

Calormene architects across the empire base their designs on the Tisroc’s palace, even while incorporating details from their native provinces. Aravis’ home had arches like these, although the upper corridors were narrower, wooden carvings replacing the mosaic designs on the awnings.

Khalid and Zadreh are satisfied, for the time being, with the incorporation of the South. Bilash has been chastised—his suspicions paralyzing him, the rumors of his disloyalty driving him to disband his forces, paralyzing his plans and further dividing Tehishbaan’s interests from the rest of the empire’s. Rabadash seems to, at last, be out of danger.

And yet, nothing has changed with Archenland’s situation. _Food of the gods_ is still out of reach. Aravis knows, rationally, that they cannot linger much longer. They have been here two weeks already, and they cannot afford to keep Corin in danger. If Bilash has time to concoct another plan…

But she cannot return to Archenland emptyhanded. She _cannot_ sail Northwards, only to stand before King Lune with nothing to show for their mission—to face a second plague, more deadly than the first, and know that she has done nothing to avoid it…

She hears footsteps on the stone, and Corin comes around the corner. The bright sunlight makes his deep green tunic seem brighter, and he smiles at her pleasantly when he sees her, but when he joins her, she can see that his eyes are weighed down with weariness. She digs her nails against the stone she is leaning against. His exhaustion is only evidence of the fruitlessness of the journey.

“Aravis,” Corin begins presently.

She glances at him, and sees that he is staring at her, a strange expression in his eyes. “Yes?”

“You know you don’t have to prove anything, right?”

She turns away, suddenly self-conscious, and returns her gaze to the courtyard below. “What do you mean?”

“You’re acting like you have to prove something, by being here.” Corin shakes his head, his voice surprisingly gentle. Shame blossoms inside her, like an ugly flower. “You don’t. If Rabadash won’t give us what we need, we’ll figure it out, somehow. This isn’t only your responsibility, you know.”

Aravis says nothing. The sun overhead is blinding, but she feels cold, cold and apprehensive—embarrassed that Corin knows to comfort her, ashamed that his words still bring her some relief. And yet she _does_ have to prove herself, she _must…_

Corin is still looking at her intently. He nudges her arm with his elbow, like he used to do often when they were children. She is forced to look at him. He is smiling.

“I mean it, Aravis. You don’t have to prove anything; you’re the Lady of Anvard already.”

###

“O Prince, the Tisroc (may he live forever), will receive only you in his chambers.”

Corin seems to barely hold back the urge to roll his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “It was arranged beforehand that we would all be present in our meal with the Tisroc. My companions are trustworthy and their presence is crucial in the dealings between our countries.”

Qannar Tarkaan smiles politely. “I’m afraid that the Tisroc has authorized only your presence.”

Lord Dar turns back from the door, his back to Qannar, and speaks low in Corin’s ear. “You and the Lady should go. Perhaps he does not wish to be outnumbered.”

Corin scowls reluctantly, aggravated, but finally nods. “Lord Dar will not accompany us, then. But Lady Aravis must be present.”

Aravis steels herself. It is quite possible that the only reason Rabadash has set the rule of only receiving Corin is that he does not want her to be present. Anger stirs in her stomach. She will not allow him to dismiss her.

Qannar disappears into the room for what seems like an eternity. When he finally returns, Aravis can tell that they have convinced Rabadash, from the resentful glare he casts at the floor. He bows. The doors remain open behind him.

Rabadash sits behind a low table, already midway through a hearty meal of veal, lamb, bread, and a multitude of sauces and creams. He looks up at their entrance and gestures towards the cushions on the opposite side of the table, arranged as seating for them.

As Aravis sits, her back stiff, her fingers instinctively reaching for the knife beside her plate, she can see that Rabadash is weary. It is made even more evident by the contrast of the multitude of jeweled necklaces that hang from his neck, and the gems and plumes that are affixed to his turban, against his haggard and tired face. His usual mask of pleasantness has slipped slightly.

The Tashkhid must have made him aware of just how sinisterly they factor in his own decisions. Aravis glances at Corin and, by the slight smile that is playing at his lips, sees that he has noticed it also.

White wine is served for them—a customary drink in such luxurious environments—by slaves that Aravis suspects are deaf and mute, as the Tisroc’s slaves tend to be in such intimate meetings. They remain standing about the room, still as statues, awaiting to be called upon.

Corin cuts into his veal slowly, and is the first to speak. “I hear that the Southern lands are now a province of yours. Congratulations on your expanding empire.”

Rabadash looks up, and his smile resembles a grimace. “It was ours already, in all but name. But thank you, nonetheless.” He reaches for a glass of wine, meeting Corin’s gaze with steely satisfaction. “I apologize if such an action has interfered with your dealings with the South.”

Corin lets out a low, seemingly puzzled, laugh. “Dealings? I’m sure you misunderstand.”

The Tisroc pauses over his glass for a long moment, before taking a drink. “Perhaps.”

The food feels tasteless in Aravis’ mouth. Rabadash’s dark mood and her own apprehension make for a sour cocktail. But Corin, at her side, seems completely calm, his movements smooth and controlled, even deriving some satisfaction from subtly provoking Rabadash. He takes exactly five bites of his meal before speaking again.

“My delegation and I intend to leave Tashbaan three days from now,” he says amiably. “We have greatly enjoyed our time here, and it has proven most fruitful. I am sure we will meet again, perhaps this time in Anvard.”

Rabadash pauses, setting down his spoon. He frowns with confusion, quite reasonably, as clearly their time has been anything but fruitful. “You leave so soon? What presses you?”

Corin takes a sip of his drink. “We have remained here for some weeks already; and have had quite our fill of entertainment, as a result of your generosity. But we plan to travel Westwards before sailing to Archenland. There is much to see of your fair lands.”

“Westward there is nothing to see but dry grassland and cavernous mines,” Rabadash says, rather sharply. “If it is sight-seeing you seek, then you must go to Zalindreh, or perhaps Ilkeen, or the valleys of the mountain range. My subjects in those lands would receive you graciously.”

Aravis watches on with a strange mix of unease and glee as Corin smiles widely. “As I have said, we have had our fill of entertainment. We go West in search of an alternative to our dilemma.”

“An alternative?”

“We know well what holds you back from dealing with us,” Corin says nonchalantly. “The priests of Tash oppress your will. We will not tarry here and upset the balance of power much longer. Word has reached my ears that _Food of the gods_ grows quite well in the West, near…” he looks at Aravis, a question in his eyes.

Aravis knows well that he remembers the name, but supplies it anyway, enjoying the look on the Tisroc’s face. “Tehishbaan.”

“Ah, yes. Tehishbaan.” Corin smiles. “There the involvement of the Tashkhid is not so fierce, I hear.”

Rabadash’s expression has grown stormy. He grasps the knife beside his plate with an iron grip, teeth crushed together in anger. “You would sidestep me and deal with my subjects?”

“Your religion does not so press upon you that you do not see the recompense that could be gained through trade with Archenland. In this way we hope to relieve some of the pressure on you, trade legitimately, and correspondingly grant your empire the remuneration it deserves for the transaction.”

Silence falls over the table. Even the slaves, deaf and mute as they are bound to be, seem to shiver where they stand. Rabadash’s eyes are flaming with fury, though his body does not move. He seems frozen where he sits.

Aravis knows that he will never admit the truth, though they all know it: Rabadash is terrified of being murdered by Bilash Tarkaan. If only he knew how narrowly he has escaped such a fate.

Now, faced by Corin’s satisfied words and the prospect of Archenland trading with his most dangerous adversary, he is caught in a trap of his own making.

The room buzzes with tension, and though Aravis instinctively feels as if she must do something to break it, she cannot bring herself to move, either. They sit still as statues, looking at each other over the table: the Tisroc, the Prince, and the Tarkheena—a retelling of the old international drama, with her standing between them—just as when Corin had escaped Tashbaan with the Queen of Narnia, and Rabadash had been an angry Prince, riding away with two hundred men and a treacherous plan.

Finally, Rabadash stirs slowly. He drops the knife onto the table with a low clatter, and reaches again for his drink. “If it is a matter of pleasing the Tashkhid,” he says slowly. “Then that is my concern and not that of foreign emissaries.” His eyes turn to Aravis, fiercely boring into hers. His smile resembles a snarl. “I see now, why you brought her with you.”

He knows, after all, that Corin would never have known enough about Calormen on his own to successfully maneuver the situation into the position it is currently in.

He tears his gaze away from Aravis. “It would not do for you to travel so far in the hope that Bilash Tarkaan will give you what you seek. You will find him a much more obstinate adversary than the people of Tashbaan.”

“We do not wish to upset the Tashkhid,” Aravis says, voice level. “It is a discourtesy to you to create conflict in your relationship.”

“I am the Tisroc.” Rabadash snaps through clenched teeth. “The Tashkhid are but priests. They answer to me.” He is trembling with rage, in spite of himself, but Aravis knows that the anger is not only directed towards them. The words of the Tashkhid in the Temple have been enough of a sign of how badly they think of the Tisroc. The pressure they have exerted on Rabadash, moving his mind back and forth on the matter of incorporating Southern territory, has finally caused his temper to snap. Having barbarians know the truth of his shame is only the finishing touch to an already volatile state.

Aravis knows that they have won even before Rabadash speaks again.

He swallows down the more evident part of his fury and manages to attempt a benevolent smile. “I have greatly enjoyed our time together. You have grown into quite a capable man, Prince Corin.”

“Thank you,” Corin says. _You haven’t_ , say his eyes.

Rabadash returns his eyes to her, next. He reminds her of a wild beast, barely held back by a rope. “And Aravis Tarkheena—such wit is not common among the women of Calormen. It surprises me, even, that you were once one of us.”

“I think you would be surprised, O Tisroc.”

He holds her gaze for a long moment.

Then the smile seems to widen, and the wild animosity is quenched suddenly like a flame. “I wish you great blessings in your journey homeward. Do relay my best wishes to King Lune. And perhaps…” he pauses, as if thoughtfully. “I will grant you this, as a boon for your return. I shall supply your people with this plant you seek. It would not do to see the North succumb to illness and desolation.”

“You are most generous.”

“King Lune knows that I have ever been eager to offer my assistance in times of tribulation.” Rabadash takes another drink from his glass, and then rings a bell, calling a young man to the table. “Now, slave… bring to me the Chief of Coin, that we may settle upon a price.”

Aravis and Corin leave the room numb, almost unable to speak. In his hand, Corin holds a scroll: the contract for their treaty—an exchange of Northern riches for _Food of the gods_ ; the cure for Archenland’s illness.

Their success has seemed so impossible that Aravis is convinced, for a few, agonizing minutes, that it must all be a strange, terrible dream. But they pass the first few pillars of the colonnade, and the fresh air from the gardens hits her nostrils, and suddenly it is very _real_ , very intense, and relief washes over her like a wave of both joy and exhaustion.

Before either of them can say anything, Qannar Tarkaan appears, lip curled. He has been waiting just beyond the pillars.

“I hear that Your Highness is to leave satisfied,” he says, no doubt having heard the rumor from the retreating slave. “Our Tisroc (may he live forever) is ever generous and self-effacing. He stretches out with his benevolent hand and gifts his treasures even to the most unseemly of peoples.”

Corin stops in his tracks, and turns to fully face Qannar. The dark lines under his eyes seem to have suddenly disappeared, replaced by electric energy, and he looks and sounds just like the Corin Aravis knows from Anvard and her childhood. “Do you want to repeat that again?”

Qannar, oblivious, turns the tone of his barely-veiled insolence even more scathing. “My apologies, O Prince; I often forget that Northerners are not accustomed to the intricacies of Calormen speech.”

Corin sighs, hands the scroll in his hand to Aravis, and proceeds to punch Qannar in the face.

###

The Tisroc orders that a ball be held, as a farewell to Prince Corin and Lady Aravis. Messages are sent to Tarkaans and Tarkheenas of neighboring cities, and the palace is lit with thousands of colored lanterns, bouquets of sweet-smelling flowers decorating every corner. Musicians, dancers and poets are brought into the citadel throughout the entire day, and cooks from the city file into the kitchens to supply the required amount of food.

Aravis has slept well for the first time in what feels like months. Suddenly the gardens seem more beautiful, the mosaics more colorful, the scents of the gardens more perfumed. She finds that she has grown accustomed to the palace and its routine, has almost forgotten what it feels like to dress in clothes from Archenland.

And yet, the glittering horizon of the sea beckons, calling her home.

The ball begins as soon as the sun sets, a seemingly constant stream of people pouring into the palace, music erupting in the ballroom, platters of food spread out on long tables, like a garden of their own. Tarkaans and Tarkheenas dress in lavish silks, jewels and plumes, and the Tisroc sits at the front of the room upon a dais, removed from the others, although he often beckons people to his side and drinks with them.

Aravis sees Corin dancing with a slender Calormene girl—perhaps a dancer, for no Tarkheena would allow him to do as he is doing, and Tarkaans laugh and cheer him on, their enthusiasm sparked by alcohol, as Tarkheenas nearby giggle and watch. Lord Dar, still grave and dignified, stands silently beside a pillar, a small smile playing at his lips.

She is turning to see if she can glimpse Lasaraleen in the multitude when she finds Khalid Tarkaan at her side, his manner businesslike.

“A word?”

They walk out of the room, out into the Hall of Pillars. Few people linger here, as the ballroom and the gardens are more appealing places for frivolity. Aravis holds her back straight, watching Khalid as he stops and turns towards her.

“I ride from Tashbaan in a fortnight, to settle in the South,” he says abruptly. “My brother has named me lord of those lands.”

Perhaps she should be surprised, but she finds that she is not. Sending Khalid away is the best decision Rabadash can make—to keep his rival safely distanced from him, well-entertained with the novelty of having his long-cherished territory for himself.

“Does it please you?” she asks politely.

“It is my mother’s homeland, and that of my wife and her kindred. I am tied to it by blood and spirit.” His eyes turn towards the direction they have just come from; where the Tisroc and other Tarkaans feast upon the banquet. His expression is stern, but resigned. “They will try to wrench its riches to feed the greed of the Tashkhid; I am of more use there than I am here.” He looks at her again. “Relay to your father my heartfelt appreciation for his assistance.”

Aravis looks at him—tall and stern, yet cowardly at heart, willing to take part in a plot to steal the throne from his own brother. Willing to control Ishaq Tarkaan under a pretense of benevolence. Perhaps he would have killed Ishaq himself. Hearing his voice now, calm and assured, it is difficult to believe that he would be capable of such a thing; but when she looks at him, at his dark beard and pronounced cheekbones, at the same unstable charcoal eyes Rabadash has…

“Do not thank my father,” she says. “You are of no consequence to him.”

Khalid, clearly already rather distracted by what he has expected to be an exchange of niceties in order to strengthen an alliance with her father, snaps back to attention. He frowns, taken aback, mouth opening to question.

Aravis continues before he can speak. “The North, too, relies on the stability of Calormen. While your aspirations align with the peace and wellbeing of this nation, we are allies. Calavar, Tehishbaan and Tashbaan are volatile.” She takes one step towards him, and though he is taller than her, she feels as if she suddenly towers over him. “Build in the South a society to balance out this risk, and you may count Archenland’s peoples and your own as friends.”

And he seems to understand, suddenly, his mind connecting the pieces of the puzzle she has suddenly created out of the understanding he had of the situation. Her mask has fallen; he sees her for the first time: the Lady of Anvard, transcending the rank her father bestowed upon her at birth, a woman capable of forging her own father’s signature and manipulating him into doing her will.

“Deal stealthily in treasonous schemes again,” Aravis adds, her voice low and threatening. “And you will be made aware of just how much you have relied on our benevolence to acquire what you have sought.”

The Hall of Pillars is silent, save for her heart, beating with adrenaline. Khalid flinches, as if struck, his eyes fixed on hers, fear and amazement mingling. They make her feel as if she is armed, somehow, though she holds no sword or dagger. As if she is a scorpion, stinger upraised, suddenly manifest to the onlooker.

“Tarkheena,” Khalid breathes, and falls forwards suddenly in a bow.

Aravis smiles.

“May good fortune follow you on your journey, Tarkaan.”

She returns to the party, leaving him among the pillars.

Viyya, Negah and Lasaraleen linger in one corner of the ballroom, as red-clad dancers take to the center, moving to the rhythm of the animated music of the talented musicians. Lasaraleen holds her child in her arms; he is wide-eyed at the explosion of colors and noise around them. He giggles when Aravis makes a playful face at him.

Viyya watches the crowd almost detachedly, one hand folded over the other. Aravis gets the impression that she misses nothing. Even as she watches, a slave-girl approaches, handing Viyya a small plate with cake. A small, folded piece of white cloth comes along with it and quickly disappears into Viyya’s dress.

She catches Aravis looking, and smiles.

“I will miss you, Aravis,” Negah says, rousing her from her thoughts. She is raising her glass of wine slightly towards her. She lowers her voice as much as possible in the din of the party. “You have proved yourself infinitely skilled. You ought to be a Queen.”

“She does have two Princes to choose from,” Lasaraleen offers with a smirk. “Although, as they are identical, there is not much variety when it comes to looks.”

Negah’s eyes gleam mischievously. “Or you could kill them both and take the throne.”

Viyya gives her niece a look. “Negah.”

“Auntie, I’m being facetious.” She shrugs slightly, and even her shrug seems inherently elegant. “But the North _has_ had Queens before.”

Aravis cannot help but laugh, and allows herself to be pulled into the chatter of the party, away from the confusion and suspense of the past few weeks. She glimpses Khalid return to the room and join other Tarkaans, disappearing into the crowd. Zadreh sits upon a cushioned chair nearby, a slave fanning her gently, conversing with a Tarkheena from the city.

For a moment, the woman shifts, and her eyes meet Aravis’—large and black, like two deep, dark wells. Then she turns away.

Someone pulls on her sleeve. “Darling,” Lasaraleen is saying. “Do try the pastries on that table, there—I’ll be sure to order the cook’s recipe for my own kitchens.”

Later, as they walk out into the gardens, Durriya Khasik joins them, her entourage of slaves and courtiers leaving her side to entertain each other by the fountain. A slave transfers the little Prince’s hand to his mother’s, and Durriya approaches the women with the child in tow.

“This has proven quite a success,” Durriya says by way of greeting. Her little boy reaches up to where Lasaraleen is sitting, and waves at the baby on her lap. The baby coos and laughs. “Even Zadreh Tarkheena is happy, although I cannot decide whether I rejoice that she is leaving, or resent that she gains her prize despite her treason.”

Negah pulls off her shawl in the shadows of the garden, fanning herself slightly in the heat. Aravis settles beside Lasaraleen and pulls Durriya’s son onto her lap, rather clumsily, but the child does not seem to mind. He happily entertains himself with the baby.

“Scatter the warmongers, but keep the greatest dangers near,” Viyya remarks, and looks in the direction of the shining lights of the ballroom, from which music flows in a steady stream. “Such has been our strategy since the days of my youth.”

Durriya frowns, and even Aravis finds herself looking at the older woman curiously.

Viyya smiles. “O my daughters, did you think this the first time we women stop a war?”

###

They sail back to Archenland the next day, with the first batch of _Food of the Gods_ in tow, its green leaves bearing the promise of health and joy for the next year. Rabadash has been grudgingly appeased, and the tumult in the palace promises to die down for the time being. After all, Calormenes are experts at keeping grudges behind closed doors.

Aravis stands on deck and watches Tashbaan shrink in the distance, a hundred domes and minarets glinting; the heart of an empire, pulsing steadily on. The valleys and deserts around it do not care for the weaknesses of men—they transcend petty politics, feeding the city wind and color, and birthing the humans that will come to inhabit its streets. Somewhere, in the deep places of the city, the unnoticed take notes on overheard conversations; someone else plots a murder. Tashbaan takes them all in as her own, life and death, joy and sadness, hope and despair—unstoppable, uncontainable.

“How do you bear it?” she asked Lasaraleen, as they stood on the terrace watching the stars gleam over the Great Desert, one of the last times she saw her before leaving. “Being in the midst of all this, every day?”

Lasaraleen smiled. “I always thought you terribly brave for leaving when you did—after all, you were only a child, and to go all that way just in hope of finding a place in the North…” she shakes her head. “But I have found that there is a certain kind of bravery in remaining, too.” She laughed suddenly. “I never really felt _brave_. But it is my home…” she turned away from the terrace, looking towards the open door, where her baby slept among the cushions. “We defend our home.”

“You would hate it in the North.”

Lasaraleen giggled. “I hear the food is _tasteless_.”

“I like it.” Aravis smiled slightly.

Lasaraleen turned back to the terrace, leaning against the railing. “You plan to stay there forever, don’t you?”

Beyond the Great Desert, and the mountains, and the Winding Arrow, Anvard awaited. Cor awaited. “Yes,” she answered

Lasaraleen wiggled her eyebrows. “Will you give your children _Northern_ names?”

She thought of her brother again, the firstborn, Rahmat Tarkaan of Calavar. She could not imagine him living in Archenland. He was a rider of Calormene horses, a reader of Calormene poetry, an explorer of southern valleys and plains. She laughed. “I always thought that if I had a son I would name him after my brother.”

“They would _mutilate_ his name with their accent.”

They laughed, and then passed into companionable silence, elbows touching as they stood close together. Lanterns were strewn about the gardens below and the winding streets of the city. In the dark hours, Tashbaan was quiet, its secrets laid bare to the night air, its inhabitants peaceful, commoner and Tarkaan alike.

When Lasaraleen spoke again, she did so in a quiet voice, as if she might disturb sleeping people. “I will keep watch here, and send you letters.”

Now, standing on the deck, watching the lights of Tashbaan fade away into the distance, she thinks of Cor, gentle and strong, future King of Archenland; of Shasta, pure-hearted and brave. He will be waiting for their return. This time, maybe she will tell him everything she feels.

She has loved Calormen as she has loved Shasta, and her brother; with the excruciating pain of loss, in memories of sand and plain and river. In the taste of the food, and the scent of spices. Overhead, clouds are gathering—the first rains of the autumn season, finally fulfilling their promise. She takes a deep breath and can almost taste the winds of Calavar, carrying tales of stream and grassland.

The ship draws further away, and as the tallest minaret of the Temple of Tash lowers itself into the horizon with one last flash of orange-red sunset, she hears the horns of the city gates, loud and melodious, echoing over the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Andaruni' is a Persian term used for the part of the house that only women and men related to them could frequent. The 'Biruni' was the part of the house that was open for male visitors.
> 
> Andaruni script, as is mentioned here, is kind of a mix of two cultures. I don't think that women in Zanzibar necessarily called the women's part of the house 'andaruni', but when I visited Zanzibar a historian showed me a special script that was only used by women, and which apparently spread throughout East Africa and can be read by older women across multiple tribes and cultures. It was a script that looked like little doodles, and women used it to communicate secrets or to record knowledge, as they didn't receive schooling and didn't know how to read or write. I don't know how true this is as I haven't found information about it online, but I saw it in the museum of Princess Salme (which, by the way, you should read about if you're interested in underappreciated badass women) and the historian was pretty convincing. Either way, I love to imagine the Tarkheenas and their slaves having a script that the men can't read. 
> 
> I realize that I've probably utterly failed at staying anonymous with this story... I'm sorry. I guess it shows that I'm unable to think of more than one headcanon for certain things. It took me about 8 different drafts to finally figure out how I wanted to write this, and this story challenged me like nothing in this fandom ever has, so I hope you enjoyed it! Your prompts were FANTASTIC.


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